


A Light That Never Comes

by AngelOfTheMoor



Series: A Light That Never Comes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Curses, F/M, Ghosts, Librarian Castiel, Librarian Jessica Moore, Light Angst, M/M, Supernatural Elements, noncon elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Best friends Castiel Novak and Jessica Moore operate the library in the small town of Picketsville. One day, two strange men named Sam and Dean Winchester walk into the library and start asking questions. Questions about the town, a curse, and Anna Milton--Castiel's ancestor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Picketsville

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> I was supposed to be working on my NaNo novel, and this idea popped into my head instead. Of course, I decided to write the first chapter. *facepalm*
> 
> The title is from the Linkin' Park song. I don't listen to that much Linkin' Park, but the title seemed apt for the idea I have in mind.
> 
> I don't know how long this story would be, but I know it would include Sam and Dean POVs in addition to those of Castiel and Jess (whose POVs are the ones in this chapter).
> 
> I'm not sure how often I will work on this story, what with my NaNo novel and the holiday season coming up, but I wanted to see if this story is worth pursuing. So, if you enjoy this chapter and like the idea, please let me know! :)

Behind the desk, Jessica peered at Castiel, who was typing feverishly on the computer. No one else was in the library, which wasn’t surprising given that it was the middle of a weekday. Everyone was either at work or school. Not that the Picketsville Library got much traffic in the first place. Sadly, most people just weren’t into books these days. She and Castiel had tried numerous campaigns to bring more traffic to the library, but to little avail. As a result, they operated on a tight budget and applied for grants to keep the library open, grants they received only occasionally.

And that’s what Castiel was doing now, putting the last touches on yet another grant application. It was due in two hours.

“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Jessica commented.

Castiel smiled faintly. “Yes. But I am almost finished.”

“Thank God,” Jessica muttered.

“You should not take the Lord’s name in vain,” Castiel murmured as he continued to type.

“Jesus,” she breathed, goading Castiel on purpose and rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re descended from a reverend doesn’t mean you have to act like one.”

“There’s nothing wrong with honoring God,” Castiel countered. “Besides I do _not_ act like a reverend.”

Jessica arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, right.”

“I don’t!”

“Uh-huh.”

Castiel picked up a pencil and shoved it into his mouth absentmindedly, chewing on the wood as he thought. Most people would drool over the blue-eyed brunette, but not Jessica. The two of them had been best friends their entire lives, and thinking of him like that was, well, practically incest.

Castiel pressed the enter key and exclaimed, “Done!” He and Jessica smiled at each other.

“Let’s cross our fingers for this one,” Jessica said.

“Yes.” Castiel tapped the pencil against his lips, and his eyes brightened a moment later, as if he’d just remembered something. “How was your date last night with Brady?”

“Ugh. I don’t even want to think about it.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “Oh? Why not? I thought you liked him.”

“I _did_ , but that was until he showed his true colors.” Jessica had been dating Brady for a month, and they had just started getting close. But last night, when they’d been alone in his apartment . . . just, ugh.

“What did he do?”

Jessica sighed. “He wanted to, you know, and I wasn’t ready. He made some advances, but I pushed him away, and when he—”

“What?! He tried to force himself on you?!”

Jessica avoided his eyes. “No. Maybe? I don’t know. He stopped when I pushed him away, but he kept taunting me about how much he knew I wanted it, and—” She didn’t realize tears had gathered in her eyes until they were spilling onto her cheeks.

“Jerk,” Castiel hissed, his hands clenching into fists. “I would like to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Please don’t, Cas. It’s all right. I’m going to stay away from him.”

“Kind of hard in a town this size.”

“Yeah. But I’ll manage.” She didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “What about you, Cas?  When are you gonna finally ask someone out?”

Castiel blushed. “There’s no one around here I could see myself with.”

“Not even Daphne?” Sometimes Daphne would come into the library and just stare at Castiel, thinking she was being sneaky about it. Nothing was further from the truth, however. It was amusing, and downright creepy.

Castiel laughed softly. “No. Definitely not.”

Jessica scrunched her forehead, suddenly realizing something. Not that this was the first time she’d realized it, but she hadn’t thought about it in a while. “You’ve never been on a date. You should try it sometime.”

“That’s not true! What about Meg?”

Jessica snorted. “One date in tenth grade does not count.”

“Does, too.”

“Does not.”

“Does, too.”

“Does not.”

“This is childish,” Castiel pointed out. “I’m just not interested in anyone, all right?”

“Sure.”

It was hard to read Castiel on this subject. Was he gay? In the closet? Was that why he never dated anyone? . . . But no, something about that didn’t seem quite right. Maybe he really just wasn’t interested. Not that Jessica could blame him. Around here, it was slim pickings.

The bell over the door tinkled, and two gorgeous flannel-and-denim-clad strangers walked in. Both she and Castiel whipped their gazes toward the unfamiliar men, their eyes glued on them.

The shorter one nodded toward the back and said, “I’m gonna check out the computer.”

“Good idea,” the taller one replied. As his companion drifted out of view, the man grumbled, “D’you know that the motel here doesn’t even have the Internet?”

“Of course not.” He looked at her as if she’d just uttered the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “It’s not economical,” she explained. “It’s a wonder Rufus is even able to keep it runnin’.”

“I’m going to help him,” Castiel cut in, gesturing toward the back. Jessica nodded; she knew no one could log on to the library’s computers without a library card and password, which these two men obviously didn’t have.

The remaining man raked a hand through his dark brown hair and pushed an ID toward her. “Agent Lars Ulrich,” the guy announced.

“You’re kidding,” Jessica scoffed.

“What?”

“You are _not_ Agent Lars Ulrich.”

“Look at the freakin’ badge.”

She glanced down at it; it did look convincing. But no. That was an obvious alias. “Lars Ulrich is the drummer of Metallica.”

“So? Haven’t you ever heard of two people having the same name?”

She shoved the ID back at him. “I don’t know what your game is, but this conversation is over unless you tell me your real name.”

He scratched his chin then snapped, “Fine. I’m Sam Winchester.”

“And who’s the other one?”

“Dean,” he sighed. “My brother.”

“Now, was that so hard?”

He ignored her snide remark and asked, “Do you have any books on local history?”

“Sure.”

“Where are they?”

She indicated the small local history collection to her right. “Over there.”

“Thanks.”

He turned away from her and took one step, but then she inquired, “Why do you care?”

He looked back at her. “What?”

“Why do you care about a small town like Picketsville?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity?” He scurried away.

She frowned. That had _not_ been a satisfactory answer.

xxxxxxxxx

Castiel approached the visitor. With his dirty blonde hair and hazel-green eyes, he looked like a male model. As did his friend, for that matter. What on earth were they doing in Picketsville?

“Dammit, how do you get on this thing!” the man seethed.

Castiel couldn’t prevent a smirk. “Need some help?”

The man’s eyes shifted to the side, and he appeared embarrassed. “Uh. Yeah. I can’t get on the computer.”

“Here. I’ll log you in.” Castiel bent down next to the man and typed in the guest access code. “There you go.”

“Thanks, uh—”

“Castiel,” he supplied.

“Castiel.” The man blinked. “What kind of name is that?”

“It’s an old family name.”

“Oh. Speaking of old families, do you know anything about an Anna Milton? She woulda been alive during the 1800s.”

Castiel froze. “Why are you asking about my ancestor?”

“What? You’re related?”

“Yes. She was the wife of Reverend Uriel Novak. They helped found this town, the Novaks.”

“Huh . . . So I guess you know a lot about them.”

“I guess I do,” Castiel parroted, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“So what can you tell me about them?”

Castiel knit his brows together. He had a bad feeling about this. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

“This wouldn’t be about any sort of . . . _curse_ , would it?”

“Um. Yeah. You do know about it, right?”

Castiel barked a short laugh. “Of course I know about it. Everyone in Picketsville knows about it.” A year after she had borne her husband a son, Anna Novak nee Milton had disappeared at the young age of twenty. The widely accepted theory was that she had died. According to legend, Anna Milton’s ghost appeared every twenty years, bringing destruction in her wake.

“Then you know the ghost of Anna Milton’s coming back. Next week, in fact.”

Castiel pitched his lips into a straight line. “Only fools believe that story.”

“But there’s some truth to it, right? Isn’t there always some sort of tragic accident every twenty years?”

That was true, but those accidents could be rationally explained, at least the two residents still remembered. Forty years ago, Castiel’s grandfather had drowned in the nearby lake, a current overtaking him after he'd fallen out of his boat. Twenty years ago, when Castiel had been seven, his parents had died in an electrical fire. A circuit had shorted. The one anomaly had been Castiel himself. Though the house had burned to ashes and his parents’ bodies hadn’t been found, the firefighters had discovered an unscathed Castiel in the middle of the rubble. Sound asleep. It still haunted him sometimes, the fact that he had somehow managed to sleep through a fire that had killed his parents. That he’d been saved by some miracle he didn’t deserve.

But whatever it was, it had nothing to do with a curse or the ghost of Anna Milton.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Castiel declared.

“Okay, okay. Sorry. You don’t have to be so touchy. Can I ask you something else?”

“All right,” Castiel replied tentatively.

“We’re in Louisiana, aren’t we? Where are the bayous?”

“It’s _northern_ Louisiana. There are very few bayous in this area.” He couldn’t help his clipped tone.

“Oh.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Castiel said with impatience. “I have work to do.” Actually, he had nothing to do; he’d already finished the grant application. But he couldn’t stand to be near this idiot anymore.

“Douche,” he heard the man mutter behind him.

When the men left an hour later, Jessica turned to him and observed, “They were _handsome_.”

“Yes.” Castiel could acknowledge that much. “But also jackasses.” Jessica studied him, and he swallowed. “The one on the computer was a jackass, anyway.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “There’s definitely something off about them. The other one was pretending to be an FBI agent named Lars Ulrich.” She rolled her eyes. “Like no one could see through _that_.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Jessica grinned at his words. “The one on the computer wanted me to tell him about Anna Milton’s ghost.”

“Oh, Castiel,” Jessica said with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel tried to reassure her with a smile. She knew how much it hurt to think about his parents. “It’s all right. I told him I wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Good. He doesn’t have any right to ask you about that shit. Who does he think he is?”

“Why do you think they want to know about this stuff?”

“I dunno. Maybe they have a website. Like the Ghostfacers.” Castiel stared at her blankly. “You’ve never heard of the Ghostfacers?” Castiel shook his head. She logged onto her computer and navigated to the Internet. “Here. I’ll show you. Basically, they go around capturing footage of ghosts. That’s what they say, anyway. They have this one video that tells you how to deal with a ghost if you meet one.” She clicked play on the first video, and two men introduced themselves as Harry Spangler and Edd Zeddmore then provided tips about how to kill ghosts. He and Jessica were giggling like a couple of loons when she suddenly gasped. After the video finished, she eyed him. “Did you hear what they said?”

“Yes. Burn the bodies to get rid of the ghosts. They are obviously insane.”

“No. About the Winchesters.” He gazed back with confusion. “The one I was talking to said his name was Sam Winchester and that his brother’s name was Dean.”

Castiel felt as if ice was flowing through his veins. “Do you think they really do that? Burn remains? Believe they are fighting ghosts?”

“Dunno. But let’s Google them and see what we find.”

The search didn’t unveil much. The results included webpages in which the Ghostfacers discussed their hatred of the Winchesters and others detailing prestigious awards Sam had earned while attending Stanford before leaving during his senior year. The latter intrigued them: why would a person drop out of Stanford to chase ghosts with his brother? A small Kansas town’s newspaper contained a story about the Winchesters defacing a grave. However, the sheriff of the county where the crime had been committed felt the charges were not worth pursuing. She even claimed they were nice boys.

“I guess they do think they fight ghosts,” Jessica marveled after they’d read the article.

Castiel was indignant. “Well, if that’s what they’re here to do, they’re going to be disappointed. Anna Milton’s remains were never found.”

“Do you have an heirloom of hers?” As a matter of fact, he did. A silver necklace with a cross pendant. He kept it locked away with his other most prized possession, a photograph of his parents, James and Amelia Novak. “Don’t tell me. Just, if you do, don’t let them know.”

Castiel had no intention of informing them about the necklace. He didn’t plan to talk to them ever again. If they returned to the library, Jessica could take care of them.


	2. Second Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More people seem interested in this story than I would've thought. Thanks to those of you who've left kudos and subscribed! I'm honored! I've written the second chapter quicker than I might have otherwise. 
> 
> Again, I'm not sure how often I'll update since I should be working on my NaNo novel, but apparently I'm more inspired by this idea at the moment. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you have any thoughts, I'd love to know! :)

When they returned to the motel room, Dean reclined on the mattress and rested his head on his clasped hands. He hadn’t bothered to take off his boots, and Sam frowned in distaste as he perched on the edge of his bed. He’d told the librarian their real names, and now he had to inform Dean so he wouldn’t continue to claim they were FBI agents.

“So, Dean,” Sam began, and Dean shifted his eyes toward his brother, his attention rapt. Sam swallowed. “I kinda told that librarian who we are we.”

“What the fuck, Sam!” Dean exploded. “Why didn’t you just show her the damn badge?!”

“I did! It’s just . . . ” He rubbed a hand over his neck. “She saw right through it.”

“Right. When those are practically authentic.”

Sam glared at Dean. “Your method of choosing aliases is stupid. I told her I was Lars Ulrich, and she knew I was lying right away. Then she said she wouldn’t answer me until I gave her my real name. So I did.”

Dean snorted. “You couldn’t make something up?”

 “I—ah—I guess I didn’t think of that.”

Dean sat up and pointed a finger at Sam. “The first rule of this business is that we _never_ let people know our real names.”

“I know,” Sam sighed. “I just—I froze, okay?”

Dean studied him then smirked. “I think little bro has a crush on the librarian.”

Sam felt his face growing warm. “No, I don’t,” he muttered without conviction. Truth was, she was gorgeous. Her smile alone left an imprint on Sam’s heart . . . and it was obvious, even with the little interaction he’d had with her, that she was intelligent.

“It’s all right,” Dean continued. “Perfectly understandable. She was freakin’ hot, man.”

Sam didn’t appreciate the leering tone in Dean’s voice, how he objectified her. She was more than a nice piece of ass.

Dean placed one foot on the carpet. “You should ask her out.”

“What?”

“Ask her out. If you like her.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

Dean swung his other foot to the ground, stood up, and stretched. “’Bout time for grub and a beer,” he muttered. “I saw a bar not too far away on the highway. Doesn’t look like there’s much else to do around here. Wanna come?”

Sam thought about the case they were supposed to be working. On their way back to the motel, Dean had mentioned that the male librarian, Castiel Novak, was descended from the woman whose ghost was due to appear next week. According to Dean, the guy had been rather hostile. If he didn’t contact them for assistance, then why were they in this town? Did Novak have relatives who’d called one of Dad’s old numbers? “Why’d you pick this case, Dean?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“Where’d you hear about it? I’m just wondering.”

He shrugged. “It was in one of Dad’s journals. He traced a string of accidents here back to 1853. Always every twenty years. Always within the same week span.”

“And you just somehow remembered it?”

“It seemed time to look into it. Since it’s 2013 and all.” Sam detected a hint of disappointment in his voice, though.

“What is it?”

“I—I thought we’d be closer to New Orleans is all. Y’know, where all the fun is. Not on the opposite side of the damn state.”

So _that_ was it. Sam donned a teasing smile. “So you were just looking for the party.”

“Hell, yeah. What’s wrong with that?” He looked forlorn. “But all we’ve got here is some place called The Roadhouse. You comin’ or not?”

“Nah.”

Dean tugged on his leather jacket and replied, “Suit yourself.”

After Dean closed the door, Sam thought about that librarian again. He hadn’t even caught her name, and at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to find out what it was. There wouldn’t be a point in asking her out—they were going to be here for only a week, after all—but it’d be nice to know her name. To talk to her a little while they were in town.

Therefore, he grabbed his own jacket and strolled out of the room. The parking lot was empty; Dean had taken the Impala. Sam hoped he wouldn’t wind up driving drunk. Luckily, the library was only a couple of blocks away, and he directed his footsteps toward it.

When he reached his destination, the librarian was locking up for the night. He approached her and stammered, “Um, hey—”

She squealed and dropped her keys. Then she whirled around, bent down to pick up her keys, and blushed. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “You startled me.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Sam countered, his eyes darting around nervously. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She smiled tentatively. “It’s all right.”

“So. Um. I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

Her grin widened, and a mischievous gleam entered her green eyes. “Yes?”

Damn, she was going to make him drag it out. “So, what is it? Your name?”

“You want my real one or a fake one?”

“Real one,” he murmured, his cheeks reddening. “If you don’t mind?”

“Jessica Moore.”

“Jessica. Pretty.” She rolled her eyes, and yeah, he guessed that had been a clichéd thing to say.

Then the words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “You wanna grab some dinner at the diner?” It was either that or The Roadhouse, and Sam didn’t feel like running into Dean while he was with her.

“Now?” she responded.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Sorry. No can do.” Sam must have looked crestfallen, because she quickly added, “How about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night.” He nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Great.” He noticed the dappled lights in her blonde hair, cast by the setting sun. “Meet you there at seven?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Well, he’d done it. Gone and asked her on a date, even though it wasn’t wise.

And to his amazement, she’d said yes.

xxxxxxxxxx

The Roadhouse was crowded as fuck. Dean wasn’t surprised. It was probably the only place to hang out in this godforsaken town. He sidled up to the bar, and the blonde girl wiping the countertop beamed at him before straightening up. “Well, hello there, handsome,” she pronounced.

“Jo!” an older woman yelled. She stepped up next to the girl. “How many times do I have to tell ya not to flirt with the customers?”

“Mom!” she spluttered.

“What can I get ya?” the mother asked Dean. The cute blonde flushed and scampered off to somewhere in the back.

“Whatever you’ve got on tap is good,” Dean muttered.

She poured him a pint and shoved the glass toward him. “There ya go.”

He flashed his most winning smile, but the woman didn’t seem impressed. “Haven’t seen you around here,” she commented.

“That’s because I ain’t from around here.” He regretted his smart-ass tone when the woman’s expression grew steely. Now he pasted on his apologetic smile and extended his hand. “Dean Winchester.” If Sam had already told the librarian their real names, there was no point in sticking with his pseudonym. No doubt word traveled fast in a town this size.

She accepted it and murmured, “Ellen Harvelle. I own this joint.”

“Awesome.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Hope you enjoy your stay in Picketsville.”

“Thanks.” He drifted off toward a table and sipped his beer. He was tempted to guzzle it, but he knew better. Alcoholism always hovered on the periphery.

A bout with alcoholism had ruined Sam’s life.

During Sam’s senior year at Stanford, Dean and his dad had been on a routine hunt in Michigan, chasing a wendigo. Dean had made a careless mistake, and his dad had jumped in to save him. The wendigo had torn Dad to pieces before Dean could kill it. He remembered how Dad’s blood had splattered, onto him, onto the monster, onto the earth. After killing the wendigo, he collapsed onto the grass. He couldn’t convince himself to move. Eventually he had to get up, though, and burn the body. Dad’s body. So his spirit would rest in peace.

Alone.

He’d been so alone.

Dad was dead.

And it had been his fault.

He put it off for a few days, but he couldn’t keep such news from Sam. So he’d called and told his little brother, who insisted on coming to him right away, in the motel room Dean had holed himself up in.

Dean begged him not to come. He had his studies at Stanford. He had a bright future ahead of him. A normal future.

But Sam had thrown it away for him.

When Sam had arrived, Dean had been passed out on the bed, empty bottles strewn about the room, all formerly containing an alcoholic substance.

Sam had cleaned him up, taken care of him. He’d tried to wean Dean off of alcohol altogether, but that hadn’t worked. At least Dean returned to some semblance of functionality, though.

Afterward, Sam had decided he should join Dean in the family business.

“No, Sammy,” he’d rasped. “I can do it alone.”

“You know hunting alone is never a good idea,” Sam had responded.

“Yeah. But I can handle it.”

But Sam had been afraid Dean would degenerate into a mess once again if he left his brother alone. He hadn’t said as much, but Dean sensed it all the same.

That had been two years ago.

It would’ve been best if Sam had left him alone. He could’ve died like he deserved. Dad’s death was on him no matter how much Sam assured him otherwise.

He realized he’d drained his glass, so he bought another pint. When he returned to his table, he spotted a familiar face in a booth in the back corner.

Mr. Douchebag Librarian. He was sitting across from an old man wearing a baseball cap. They couldn’t have seemed more different: the librarian appeared neatly groomed, and the other guy looked like a trucker.

The librarian glanced in his direction, and Dean turned away before he could discover Dean had been watching him.

“Hi,” a strawberry-blonde chick greeted him.

Fuck yeah. This was what he was talkin’ about.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“’Course not.”

“I’m Lydia,” she introduced herself.

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean. What’s a man like you doin’ in a backwater town like this?”

“Lookin’ for an angel like you.” He winked and proffered the grin he knew melted all the ladies’ hearts.

She laughed. They continued making small talk while draining glass after glass after glass.

For some reason Dean couldn’t fathom, Mr. Librarian kept flicking his eyes toward them.

Whatever. Why should he fuckin’ care? Why did he even notice?

But the man’s eyes shone an eerie sapphire blue, almost as if they were glowing. It was perceptible from even this far away, and it was unnerving as fuck.

 _Whatever. Stow the gay thoughts, Winchester_.

At the end of the night, he wound up in Lydia’s bed, fucking her, both of them drunk.

xxxxxxxxxx

After work, Castiel met Bobby at The Roadhouse, as he normally did on Thursday nights. Bobby had been a friend of his parents, and after they’d died in the fire, he’d taken Castiel in. Castiel couldn’t have asked for a better guardian than Bobby Singer, even if he was a little rough around the edges.

“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel said as he slid into the booth.

“Hi, Cas,” Bobby replied.

A second later, Jo appeared at their side and announced, as she deposited the items on the table, “Two burgers, two orders of fries, and two beers.” She grinned. “As usual.”

“Damn, Jo. That was fast,” Bobby croaked.

“’Course. I’m no slouch. Is there anything else I can get y’all?”

“No,” Castiel answered, “Thank you, Jo.”

Bobby shoved a fry into his mouth and muttered, “So, how’s the library? Same old, same old?” Castiel winced at the sight of the detritus in Bobby’s mouth, and Bobby swallowed. “I swear, I don’t know how you became such a sissy. You certainly didn’t get it from me.”

Castiel blushed. “There’s nothing wrong with good manners.” Bobby snorted, but he knew Bobby understood. They’d had this discussion before. Besides the photograph, it was all he had left of his parents, the lessons they’d taught him. Like good manners. Respect for God.

Bobby took a gulp of beer and repeated, “So, same old, same old?”

“Not exactly.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Somethin’ actually happened at the Picketsville Library today?”

“Yeah. There were these two men—visitors—”

“Someone’s actually visitin’ this hellhole? I bet Rufus’s happy ’bout that.” Rufus Turner operated the Picketsville Inn, and he rarely received any business.

“Yes.” Castiel’s hands trembled, and he hid them under the table. “They were asking questions about Anna Milton.”

“Balls!” Bobby spat. “What kinds of sons of bitches are they?!”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know. But Jess and I looked them up on the Internet once they left. Apparently they are ghost hunters.”

Bobby guffawed, but then his expression turned sober. “Well, if they think they’re gonna exploit this town, they’ve got another think comin’.”

Castiel frowned. “I don’t think it’s like that, not exactly. They don’t seem interested in fame. All the results Jess and I pulled up were from outside parties.”

“Huh. So what? Are they like the real Ghostbusters?”

“It seems they view themselves as such,” Castiel confirmed. He tossed a fry into his mouth and scanned his surroundings, his eyes alighting on the man who’d used the computer this afternoon. Dean, Jessica had said his name was. He nodded toward the stranger. “That’s one of them. Dean Winchester.”

Bobby glanced at him and snorted. “Well, that’s a pretty boy type if I’ve ever seen one. He’s prob’ly got straw for brains. No wonder he thinks he fights ghosts. The other one’s prob’ly the same.”

“Sam Winchester. Also attractive, but not stupid. He attended Stanford.”

“Then what’s he doin’ with that idjit over there?”

“They _are_ brothers. Maybe he feels like he needs to keep an eye on him.”

“Watchin’ out for his dick-for-brains brother. That’s kinda depressing.”

Castiel didn’t know why, but his eyes were drawn to Dean. He tried to restrain the urge to gaze at the visitor, and at one point it seemed the other man had caught him staring. After that, he didn’t look at Dean for a while, but eventually his eyes moved in that direction once more. Now he was flirting with Lydia. The pair left together, and Castiel didn’t understand the tight knot he felt in his stomach.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel closed his eyes that night, hell erupted.

Something in his chest was burning, tearing him up from the inside, ripping through his innards before consuming his skin. It was as if someone had lit a fire underneath his ribs.

Then he was witnessing the fire at his childhood home, the conflagration engulfing his mother’s body, his father’s body. At first they mouthed their love, but their faces turned accusatory. Why didn’t you save us? How could you sleep when we were burning, burning?

You will know what it is to burn.

The flames licked over them as if trailing over a photograph, reducing it, and them, to ashes.

His eyes flew open, meeting darkness, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. He was so _cold_.

 _Just a dream_ , he told himself. _It’s Dean Winchester’s fault for asking those questions. It’s okay. Just a dream._


	3. Awkward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still amazed at how many people have looked at this story. I wasn't expecting that.
> 
> Anyway, here's the next chapter. I really should return to my NaNo novel . . . but my mind's got the next two chapters of this fic mapped out. Decisions, decisions . . . 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sam’s eyes shifted from the muted TV toward Dean when he stumbled into their motel room mid-morning. Dean plopped onto his bed and sighed while Sam pulled his bitch-face. He knew Sam didn’t approve of his penchant for one-night stands, but he could go fuck himself. In this business, a guy had to get his kicks from somewhere.

“Whatcha watchin’, Sammy?” Dean tossed out casually.

“Nothin’,” he replied a little too quickly before turning off the TV, his expression embarrassed.

All the same, Dean had caught a glimpse of what was unmistakably an episode of _Casa Erotica_ , and he beamed. “Sam, you dog!” he gibed.

“Shut up,” Sam mumbled before straightening up and reaching for the box of granola bars on the table between the beds. He grabbed one for himself and threw two at Dean.

Dean accepted his share with a grimace. “Fuckin’ rabbit food,” he grumbled.

“Hey you’re the one who said we needed to save money,” Sam pointed out.

“Not if this is what I have to eat,” Dean mouthed around his first bite. What the fuck was this? Oatmeal raisin? It tasted like shit.

“Fine. We’ll go to the diner from now on. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“So, I was thinkin’ we should do more research today. Get more facts. Some of the things in Dad’s journal are a little hazy. Like who was involved in the accidents.”

“How’s that gonna help?”

“Maybe it’ll give us a clue about what Anna Milton’s next target will be. Or who.”

“You didn’t find anythin’ in those books you were lookin’ at yesterday?”

“No. It was mostly genealogies and stuff.”

“Oh. So, where do ya wanna look?”

“I was thinkin’ that I could go to the historical society and—”

“This place has a historical society?”

“Yeah. In the town hall. Only open on Fridays.”

“Okay, so we’ll go there—”

“ _I’ll_ go there,” Sam corrected, and Dean frowned. “You’ll go to the library.”

“We’ve already been to the library.”

“Yeah. But we need to figure out what we’re dealing with, and the library’s the only place with the Internet.”

“We already know what we’re dealin’ with. A ghost. Simple as that.”

“Maybe. But what type of ghost?”

Fuck. Sam had a point. But he didn’t want to see Mr. Asshole Librarian again. “Why don’t you go to the library?” Dean suggested. “You could talk to that librarian again.” Sam blushed, and Dean knew there was something Sam wasn’t telling him. “What is it?”

“Um . . . ”

“Spill it, Sam.”

Sam scratched his scalp. “I kinda asked her on a date. We’re having dinner tonight.”

Dean stood up and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Nice goin’, bro!”

Sam balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. “I’m sorta nervous about it.”

“You really like her,” Dean marveled.

“Yeah, I do. And . . . I just want some time to build up my courage, okay?”

“Sure, Sam.” Dean dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Sam. “Here. Don’t scratch her.”

Sam’s fingers brushed Dean’s when he accepted the keys. “Thanks.”

xxxxxxxxxx

“So, guess what happened last night as I was locking up?” Jessica gushed to Castiel.

“What?” Castiel replied.

“Sam Winchester comes out of nowhere. And you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He asked me to dinner!”

Castiel almost choked on his breath. “ _What?_ ”

“And I said yes,” she concluded with a smile.

“What?” What was wrong with Jessica? Why would she accept an invitation from some stranger who thought he hunted ghosts? Who was clearly crazy?

“Don’t you know any other words?” Jessica teased.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you say yes?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her smile grew self-conscious. “I couldn’t say no to his puppy dog eyes.”

“So it was because of his looks.” Castiel was disappointed. Usually, Jessica had more substance than this suggested.

Her tone turned serious. “No, not really. Don’t you see, Castiel? The Winchesters are the most exciting thing this town has seen in a long time.” Her eyes shone. “And I’m curious. _Why_ do they go around chasing ghosts? There has to be a story there somewhere.”

“Do you actually believe in ghosts?”

She pinched her mouth into a thin straight line. “Well, no.”

“All right then. The Winchesters are lunatics. That is the only reasonable explanation.”

“Perhaps. But it’s interesting, and it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

“I suppose that is true,” Castiel conceded.

Jessica glanced at a slip of paper next to her computer and stood up. “I’ve got to go. I’m due at the elementary school soon. Y’know, to give the annual assembly about the pleasures of reading. Unless you’d like to do it?”

“No, you go ahead.” They both knew Jessica was the more personable of the two.

“Okay. See you later.”

Castiel glanced around the premises and grinned. He enjoyed being in the library alone. However, a second later, the bell over the front door interrupted his reverie. His eyes darted to the visitor.

The last man he wanted to see.

Dean Winchester.

“Hey, I was wonderin’ if I could use the computer again?” Dean mumbled.

Castiel smiled at him hesitantly. “Yes. I’ll log you in.” He followed Dean to the computer, logged in with the guest credentials, and rushed back to the front desk. Why did he feel so flustered? He picked up the tome next to his computer, _Quiet_ , Susan Cain’s book about introverts, and buried his nose in it. He was so engrossed by it that he missed when another individual walked in until she screeched, “Castiel!”

Startled, he dropped the book, the heavy thud resounding in his ears. He pasted on a fake grin and said, “Oh, hello, Daphne.”

She licked her lips, no doubt thinking she looked seductive, but instead the motion appeared silly. She tugged at her blonde hair nervously. “I was wondering if you could help me find a book.”

“What book?”

“A biography of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “You know where our biographies are.” He pointed toward the pertinent section. “Over there.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. “Why don’t you show me?”

Castiel knew what would happen if he led her toward the stacks. She would pin him against the shelves and insist he listen to her babble. It had occurred before. He could pretend to be oblivious to her crush for only so long.

He seized upon an idea. “Actually, I think he needs some help.” He nodded in Dean’s direction. “You go find your book and let me know when you’re ready to check out.” Before she could object, he raced to Dean’s side and asked, “What can I help you with, sir?”

Dean smirked. “I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you attend to her?” He indicated Daphne’s form meandering through the stacks.

Castiel’s face tensed up. “I am sure I can help you with that, sir.” He lowered his voice and begged, “Just play along? Please?”

“Thank you, sir,” Dean said loudly. “That was all the help I needed.”

Castiel glanced at the computer screen and whispered, “What’s a white woman?”

Dean quickly exited the browser and repeated, “Thanks, again, sir.”

“I see you are having trouble navigating our online library catalog. I can assist you with that, _sir_.”

“I think I’ve got the hang of it, thanks. _Sir_.”

“Castiel!” Daphne exclaimed behind him. “I can’t find it. Can you help me? Please?”

“I am engaged with another customer,” Castiel declared.

“I’m good. Help her.”

“Please, Castiel. I can’t find it,” Daphne pleaded. Dean chuckled, and it galled him.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Daphne!” he snapped. “They’re in alphabetical order!” An instant later, he regretted his outburst. Daphne’s eyes were filling with tears. Not to mention that he had just taken the Lord’s name in vain. _Please forgive me, Lord_ , he prayed silently, _I didn’t mean it._ Daphne stalked out of the library, slamming the door behind her. It was a miracle the glass didn’t shatter.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dean asked. “She’s not bad-lookin’.”

“She’s not my type,” Castiel answered.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, propping his boots on the desk. He should tell Dean not to do that, but he didn’t have the energy. “Oh. Then what is your type?”

“None of your business,” Castiel hissed. The question had hit too close to home. He didn’t know what his type was. The only person he’d ever been attracted to was Meg Masters, back in high school, and one awkward date had ruined any potential there. Why hadn’t he ever been attracted to anyone else? What was wrong with him?

“Asshole,” Dean called after him as he returned to his desk. Tears pricked his eyes, and he stared at the wall, not daring to face the expanse of the library.

Dean was right. He was an asshole. Look what he’d done to poor Daphne.

He was a freak of nature. He’d always known. How else did one explain his almost complete lack of sexual attraction? How he’d survived that fire without even a scratch?

“Cas—” He heard a voice pronounce near his ear. Dean’s voice.

“ _What?_ ” Castiel seethed, directing a defiant gaze at Dean, not even bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“Jesus, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t call me that! I don’t know you!”

“I mean it, Cas—tiel. I’m sorry.”

Castiel shrugged shuddering shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. I’m just some hillbilly _asshole_.”

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t—”

Suddenly, Castiel felt that _burn_ again, the one from his dream, in his chest, deep inside him, and he clutched at the countertop for support.

Then just as rapidly, it was gone.

“Castiel, are you all right?” Dean asked, and was Castiel hallucinating, or did he actually seem _concerned_?

No doubt a hallucination. Like the burn. “I am fine,” he answered, sounding weary. “Now leave me alone.” He turned away from the visitor and bit his lip until it bled.

xxxxxxxxx

The Picketsville Town Hall was a tiny brick building with only a few rooms. The one that contained the Picketsville Historical Society also doubled as a conference room. When Sam strolled into it, a cheery blonde woman greeted him.

“Hello, sir!” she chirruped. “I’m Becky Rosen. What can I do for you?”

“Uh, hey,” Sam replied. “I’m looking for information about the history of this town.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Becky giggled. She grasped his biceps, practically feeling him up, and dragged him to a corner of the room. “This is where we keep the literature.”

“Uh. Thanks,” Sam mumbled.

She continued to stroke his arms. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Not at the moment, thanks,” he responded as he shrugged her off. Clacking heels indicated her receding footsteps. Thank God. That had been awkward.

He concentrated on the pamphlets in front of him. Mostly celebratory junk about why people should visit Picketsville. Historical Town Hall! Yeah, if ordinary edifices were your thing. The ruins of the old Yates Paper Mill! First Baptist Church, founded by Reverend Uriel Novak himself! First Baptist Church . . . That sounded familiar.

He pulled Dad’s journal out from underneath his jacket and flipped to the page about Anna Milton. The first mysterious deaths had occurred in 1853, at First Baptist Church. The bodies of town founders Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler had been found one morning, a cause of death never determined. Perhaps First Baptist Church might be worth a visit.

Sam picked up another pamphlet and read the story of how Picketsville was established. Reverend Uriel Novak had migrated here from Virginia in 1830 with his wife Anna, his cousin Zachariah Adler, and Adler’s two sons. In 1833, one year after giving birth to Novak’s son Esper, Anna had disappeared without a trace. As the years passed, residents became certain she was dead, but nothing of her had ever been found. But, the brochure went on in typical optimistic fashion, Picketsville nevertheless continued to flourish! The Yates Paper Company set up a mill here in 1901, and Inias Novak was appointed as the first manager. Sadly, the Yates Paper Mill burned to the ground in 1933, and it was too costly to rebuild. But the lucky visitor could still see its skeletal structure even today!

Sam thumbed through Dad’s journal again, and there it was, 1933—a fire had destroyed the mill and killed twelve men, one of them the manager at the time, Ion Novak. A couple of Adlers, too, and the other victims had also been respected citizens of Picketsville.

Add the Yates Paper Mill to their list of places to investigate.

For the most part, though, these pamphlets were useless. What he needed were old newspaper clippings. He approached Becky, who perked up behind her desk and beamed. “How can I help you, sir?” she offered.

“Um, do you guys have any copies of old newspapers?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Sam hadn’t seen any old newspapers at the library, either, not even on microfiche. “Is there anywhere I could find them?”

“The _Picketsville Sentinel_ has an online archive. It’s excellent, going all the way back to the paper’s first year, 1847. I should know. I completed the project myself,” she bragged.

“Great. Thanks.” It seemed like he was done here, but he shouldn’t leave without ascertaining whether or not there was anything else to check out. “Do you have any historical records? Anything besides the brochures?”

“Not except for the displays,” she replied, gesturing to the four glass cases in the room. Sam examined them. Uriel Novak’s Bible. A Bowie knife that had belonged to Zachariah Adler. The architectural plans for the First Baptist Church. The ribbon that had been cut for the opening of the Yates Paper Mill.

“Thanks,” Sam called to Becky as he strode out the door. He dialed Dean; since he was at the library, Dean could peruse the newspaper archives.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean answered. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got something for you to look up. The website of the _Picketsville Sentinel_. Apparently it contains articles dating back to 1847.”

“Uh, I’m not at the library anymore, Sam.”

“Then go back! We need to fill in the details.”

“Um, I can’t go back there. Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

“Fine.” He hung up.

All right. So they wouldn’t hit the library until tomorrow. He couldn’t see Jessica before tonight.

What was up with Dean, though? Why couldn’t he go back to the library? Had Sam imagined it, or had Dean’s voice been a little shaky?


	4. The Family Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've now written more in this story than my actual NaNo novel. Whoops. I should get back to my NaNo novel, but I will be updating this fic soon, I think.

It had been a joy to goad Castiel Novak, until he got hurt.

Seeing Castiel attempt to maneuver his way out of a conversation with that chick—what was her name?—Daphne?—had been amusing.

But then Castiel had blown up at her, agitated by Dean’s teasing. Dean had been right to call him an asshole for it.

And yet—yet what would Dean have done if he was being pestered by a girl he had zero interest in? He had been in that situation before, and he’d behaved much more rudely.

Dean had been a hypocrite. Of course. Dean was always a hypocrite, as Sam liked to point out.

The librarian had hidden his countenance when he strode away from Dean, but all the same, Dean knew he was weeping. He’d had no choice but to apologize.

But when Castiel turned to face him, Dean had been stunned, and his heart had felt strange. As if someone were squeezing it, perhaps. The tears glistening in those eyes—those bluer than blue eyes, had stunned him. A gut-wrenching sight, but also beautiful.

The apology had done nothing, however, but make Castiel look even more like a wounded kitten. Dean had wanted to run his hand through that thick mop of brown hair, soothe him, and _where the fuck had that gay thought come from?_

A beep from his phone interrupted Dean’s musings. It was a text from Sam informing Dean that he was in the motel parking lot. Dean donned his leather jacket and met Sam inside the Impala. Sam drove them to the outskirts of town, where the old Yates Paper Mill was located. He pulled into a dirt lot next to a shell of a wooden building.

“What’re we lookin’ for again?” Dean asked.

“Clues?” Sam ventured.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I don’t know what we’re supposed to find.”

“Me, neither. Maybe we can figure out what set the fire?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah. We’re gonna find that out _eighty years_ after the fact.”

“Just an idea. Let’s take a look around.”

They ducked into the mill. Sam turned left, and Dean turned right. Nothing but your ordinary burnt-out hulk of a building. Dean touched one of the few remaining slats, and his hand came away with a black stain (gross) while wooden chips fell to the ground.

“I don’t see anythin’, Sammy,” Dean said when he met Sam on the other side of the mill.

“Yeah, I don’t, either. Maybe we should dig?”

“Dig? Why?”

“Maybe Anna Milton’s buried here? Maybe that’s why the fire happened?”

“Prob’ly not. I mean, the first incident happened at a church, right?” Sam nodded. “I don’t think she’s tied to any physical property,” Dean concluded.

“The body could be anywhere,” Sam pointed out. “So we might as well check.”

“Great, so you wanna dig up the whole town?” Sam glared at him, but Dean knew he was right. They had no freakin’ idea where this chick was buried, and choosing random places to dig was a waste of time.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam pouted. “I wanna do _something_. I feel like we’re gettin’ nowhere.”

“Fine. Be my guest.” They exited the building. Dean retrieved two shovels from the trunk and tossed one to Sam; then they began digging. They’d torn up practically the whole property when a car appeared on the horizon, headed in their direction. “Shit,” he muttered. Sam turned to see what Dean was referring to, and _damn_ they had to get out of here fast.

But too late. The car pulled over to the shoulder, and the trucker from The Roadhouse stepped out. “What the hell are ya two idjits doin’?” he shouted.

“Um, what does it look like?” Dean joked, laughing nervously.

“Destruction of property. I should turn you in.”

“Does this property belong to anyone?” Sam inquired.

“Just the damn parish, but that doesn’t mean you can mess with it all ya want.”

“We’re testing the soil,” Sam claimed. God, for someone so smart, Sam could sometimes be a dumbass.

“Yeah, right,” the man scoffed. “I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Cas told me.” He stepped toward them, and they backed up until their bodies hit the half-collapsed wall of the mill. He jabbed a finger at Dean’s chest. _What the fuck? Why me? Sam’s the one who’s been talkin' to him._ “And if you boys know what’s good for ya, you’ll stop this charade. Take your little game somewhere else.”

“Okay, sir. Sorry,” Sam uttered. He began filling in the holes they’d dug.

Dean wasn’t backing away so easily, however. He met the old man’s eyes and asked, “Do you know anything about the ghost of Anna Milton?”

The man spit. “That’s a lotta hooey.”

“You’ve never seen her?”

“No one with any brains has seen her.” The man narrowed his eyes. “And don’t you _dare_ go askin’ Cas about it.”

“Why not?” Dean was unlikely to bring up the subject with the librarian again; after all, he’d been clear about not wanting to discuss it. But Dean was curious about why this man would insist they refrain from mentioning the ghost to Castiel.

“Some a the crazies say they saw her, wanna blame Anna Milton for the fire, the one that killed his parents.”

“Christ,” Dean murmured. Mom had died in a fire, too. But to lose both parents that way? Dean couldn’t imagine the devastation. No wonder Castiel didn’t want to talk about the subject.

“Yeah. And if you go around makin’ any more trouble, you’ll have Bobby Singer to answer to.” The man gestured toward himself.

“Duly noted, Mr. Singer.”

Singer strolled back to his car, and Dean joined Sam in covering up the holes.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jessica couldn’t decide what to wear. She wanted to look nice, but then again, she was just going to the diner. Anything but jeans and a T-shirt would be overdressing. She compromised, choosing jeans and her favorite green blouse.

 _Why should I even care how I look?_ It’s not like Sam Winchester was a “serious” prospect. She was merely curious. What could possess a man to leave Stanford and become a ghost hunter?

When she arrived at the diner, she scanned the crowded interior until she spotted Sam in a booth on the other side of the restaurant. He smiled at her and waved, and she grinned back as she strode toward him and slid into the other side of the booth.

He had cute dimples.

 _Stow it, Jess. The guy’s a_ ghost hunter _, for God’s sake. A man like that can’t be all there_.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” Sam confessed, a rosiness coating his cheeks.

“Of course I came,” Jessica assured him.

“Uh, what’s good here?” Sam asked as he twirled the menu between his fingers.

“Personally, I think it’s all good. But everyone swears by the burgers.”

“Burger it is.”

Jessica decided she might as well order a burger, too. It had been a while since she’d indulged in one.

“So, how was your day?” Sam inquired.

Jessica shrugged. “Mundane. I had to speak at an assembly at the elementary school. Let me tell you, some of those kids can be real brats.”

“I bet,” Sam laughed.

“How about you? How was your day?”

He appeared hesitant, licking his lips as he contemplated his words. “It was okay.” The waitress deposited their burgers on the table, and they each took a bite. “Mmm. This is delicious. Dean would love it.”

“Your brother.”

“Yeah. He eats burgers at practically every meal.”

“That cannot be healthy.”

“I know. That’s what I tell him, but he goes, ‘I’m not eatin’ your bird food, Sammy.’”

“Sammy? Cute.”

He picked at the edge of the table. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Please don’t ever call me Sammy.”

“I’ll try, but I’m not makin’ any promises, _Sammy_.” He blushed, and it was totally adorable. “But seriously,” she continued. “What did you do today?”

“Oh, you know. Just explored the town a little. Saw the historical Yates Paper Mill.”

“Oh. How quaint.” There was obviously more to the story, and she intended to find it out. “So, what drew you and your brother to our neck of the woods?”

He shrugged. “We were just drivin’ by and thought it might be nice to stop over.”

She snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know what you and your brother do. Cas and I googled you guys.”

“Oh.” He chewed in silence for a few minutes before he resumed speaking. “So, you must think we’re cracked, huh?”

“It does sound crazy, what you do. But—you seem smart. I don’t understand.” He swallowed his last bite and gulped down some water. “I know why you’re here. It’s Anna Milton.” She frowned. “Or Anna Novak. I don’t know why we use her maiden name. Perhaps it’s a way of dissociating her from the Novaks . . . because they’re more respectable. But I digress.”

A glimmer of curiosity flashed in Sam’s eyes. “More respectable? Why? Did Anna Milton have a bad reputation?”

“I dunno the truth, but I’ve heard rumors. Like, she was a prostitute before she married Uriel Novak. Oh, and there’s another one about how she was a witch. Or a Satanist, depending on which version you hear.”

“A prostitute? Why would a preacher marry a prostitute?”

She shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t believe any of it. They’re just rumors.”

“What about you? What do you think about Anna Milton?”

“It’s sad. To die at twenty years old? I can see why people might think her ghost would hang around. Plus, the legend’s just about the only interesting thing about this town, so yeah, I understand people’s fascination.”

Sam scratched his chin. “Those are good points.”

“So, tell me,” Jessica urged, “how did you become involved in ghost hunting?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s sort of the family business.”

“Family business?”

“Saving people, hunting things.”

She giggled. “Is that your slogan, then?”

He laughed softly. “If we had a website, maybe. Which we don’t.”

“I know. I looked.”

“Yeah, we keep a low profile. It’s not the sort of thing you advertise.”

“Unless you’re the Ghostfacers.”

Sam chuckled. “You know about those guys? As Dean would say, they’re freakin’ amateurs.” His voice turned serious. “It’s our mission. Saving people, hunting things. Someone’s gotta do it.”

He sounded so earnest and passionate that Jessica was halfway inclined to believe him. “What do you mean it’s the family business?”

Sam gave her a guarded look. “It’s personal.”

Now it was her turn to blush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He directed searching eyes at her. “No. I wanna tell you. I know . . . you probably think we Winchesters have a screw loose.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “But I’m afraid . . . maybe you wouldn’t believe it; then you might think I’m even crazier than you first guessed.”

“No, not at all.” To her surprise, she spoke the truth. Of course she had only just met the man, but overall Sam seemed pretty sane.

He laid his hand on hers, and she allowed the contact. A trickle of warmth entered her heart. _No, Jess, do_ not _let yourself fall for this guy. Even if he’s not off his rocker, there’s no potential. He’ll leave Picketsville soon, and you’ll never see him again_.

“It started when I was six months old. My mom . . . she was killed in a house fire.”

Jessica gaped at him. “Oh,” she offered up lamely. “I’m . . . sorry to hear that.” She couldn’t imagine the heartbreak. Well, she could, sort of, what with Castiel’s parents meeting a similar fate, but she herself . . . she’d never experienced it, and she couldn’t fathom how she would react if she lost her parents that way.

“Yeah. Dad became obsessed with it. He said he glimpsed a monster in the nursery when it happened. He spent years trying to track this thing, and he became a hunter in the process. There are more of us out there than you think. Without us, it would be chaos.” He threw up his hands as if to emphasize the point. “Dean and I were raised in the business. I hated it. I just wanted to be normal, y’know?” Jessica nodded. “So, I went to college while Dean stayed with Dad. Dad was mad about it, but Dean, I think it made him happy.”

“Why did you go back to the family business?”

He seemed wary of the question. “Dean. I couldn’t leave him alone.”

“Huh?” Sam had left too many blanks for that response to make sense.

“When Dad died two years ago, Dean didn’t have anyone else. I couldn’t stand to let him continue by himself. It’s too dangerous. And lonely.”

“Hmm.” She chewed her lip as she thought. “Did your dad ever find it? The monster?”

“Yeah. It was a demon named Azazel. I wasn’t there, but Dean told me about it.”

“Wow.” She didn’t know what to make of Sam’s narrative. Could it be trusted?

“You’re still skeptical.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand, signaling that he wasn’t finished. “Let me tell you. When you’ve seen the things I’ve seen . . . you’d have to be delusional to deny the existence of the supernatural.”

“What have you seen?”

“Tons of stuff. Ghosts. Werewolves. Demons. Shapeshifters. And that doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

Jessica exhaled slowly. If the supernatural was as prominent as Sam claimed, why hadn’t she ever witnessed it?

But it wasn’t like supernatural entities would be that obvious. If they existed, they would remain in the shadows. It would facilitate the provision of victims. Doubt would allow them to flourish.

Wait, why was she even seriously considering this?

“Hey, Jess!” someone yelled. She retracted her hand and glanced up to see Brady strolling toward her. Ugh. “I didn’t know you were such a slut,” he asserted when he reached their table.

“What?” Seriously, what the hell?

Brady indicated Sam. “You’ve already moved on with this stud over here.”

“We were never serious,” she retorted.

“I beg to differ.” He clamped a hand on her shoulder, and she squirmed out of his grip.

“Leave me alone,” she warned through clenched teeth.

“Or what?” he taunted.

“You heard her,” Sam growled. “Leave her alone.”

“Yeah? Watcha gonna do about it?”

Sam rose to his feet, his lanky build towering over Brady. “I don’t think you wanna find out.”

Brady smirked. “Sure. Whatever.” He executed a mock wave. “Laters, baby.”

Ugh. Had he just quoted _Fifty Shades of Grey_ to her? Why had she ever thought going out with him was a good idea?

She supposed Sam expected her to swoon into his arms and thank him for defending her. Instead, she was annoyed. She could have handled the situation; his interference had been unnecessary. “Sorry about that,” she mumbled.

“No need to apologize. You didn’t tell that guy to be an asshole.”

Was she imagining it, or was Sam now viewing her through different eyes? Questioning her taste? She wouldn’t blame him if he were.

xxxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel crawled into bed that night, he experienced a strange sensation. There was a cold spot just above his bed. He bounded to his feet and took two steps backward. The temperature now seemed normal. But when he returned to the bed, there was that cold spot again.

He switched the light back on. On impulse, he rummaged around inside his closet until he found the strongbox containing the photograph of his parents and Anna Milton’s necklace. He stared at his parents until tears clouded his vision, turning them into a blur. He hugged it to his heart before replacing it in the box. He picked up the necklace and gazed at the silver cross as the chain dangled from his fingers.

Without knowing why, he fastened the chain around his neck, and the crucifix lay against his sternum.

He slipped back under the covers and discovered the cold spot had disappeared. He’d probably overreacted to whatever he’d felt, Castiel decided, and he drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, a parish in Louisiana is the same thing as a county in any other U.S. state.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd be interested in your thoughts!


	5. The Apparition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split my writing time between my NaNo novel and this story. I'll cheat and count them both for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> This chapter is the longest one so far, but splitting it up would've made two chapters of awkward lengths.

Saturday morning, after Castiel had stumbled awake, dressed, and shoveled a bowl of cereal into his mouth, he pulled the strongbox out of the closet, planning to put the necklace back. But before he could do so, he spotted a tiny crevice at the bottom of the box. Curious, he fitted a fingernail into the notch, and the bottom snapped off, revealing an old-looking leather-bound book underneath.

He frowned. Why had he never noticed the strongbox had a false bottom? Forgetting his original purpose, he shoved the box back into the closet and thumbed through the pages of the book. Elegant handwriting stained the thick pages. He didn’t have time to study the journal now, so he tucked it under his arm and shuffled to his car.

When he arrived at the library, he opened it up for business. Jessica appeared thirty minutes later, a strange flush adorning her cheeks. He wanted to ask her about the date with Sam Winchester, but then who should come traipsing in but the Winchesters themselves. They headed toward the computers in the back.

“I’ll help them,” Jessica declared as she trotted off after them. She logged Dean on quickly but then chatted amiably with Sam. The date had gone well, then. Their lips formed these cute besotted smiles.

He opened the journal and glanced down at the first page.

>   
> _Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children's children, unto the third and to the fourth generation._ *

Castiel dimly recognized it as a Bible verse. He turned the page.

>   
> _The Lord is longsuffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation._ **

Another Bible verse. It sounded almost identical to the first one.

He flipped the pages and discovered a Bible verse on each one.

> _My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge: because thou hast rejected knowledge, I will also reject thee, that thou shalt be no priest to me: seeing thou hast forgotten the law of thy God, I will also forget thy children._ ***

>   
>  _Our fathers have sinned, and are not; and we have borne their iniquities.****_   
> 

>   
> _And they that are left of you shall pine away in their iniquity in your enemies' lands; and also in the iniquities of their fathers shall they pine away with them. If they shall confess their iniquity, and the iniquity of their fathers, with their trespass which they trespassed against me, and that also they have walked contrary unto me;_ _And that I also have walked contrary unto them, and have brought them into the land of their enemies; if then their uncircumcised hearts be humbled, and they then accept of the punishment of their iniquity: Then will I remember my covenant with Jacob, and also my covenant with Isaac, and also my covenant with Abraham will I remember; and I will remember the land._ *****

>   
>  _I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service.******  
> _   
> 

And on and on the verses continued in this vein. Castiel’s hackles rose. He didn’t know who would compile these verses or what the collection could possibly mean, but he felt an instinctive fear. He told himself that feeling frightened was ludicrous. It was merely an assemblage of words.

__

“What’s that?” Jessica asked, and he jumped at her voice. He’d been so entranced by the journal that his surroundings had faded away.

__

“I found this among my things,” Castiel explained as he shut the book. “I think it must have belonged to an ancestor, but I cannot figure out who. It is a strange journal.”

__

“Can I see?” He handed it to her, and she skimmed through it. “Hmm. These are Bible verses, right?” Castiel nodded. “Perhaps it belonged to Uriel Novak. Like, they were the verses that inspired his sermons.”

__

Castiel shuddered. “I do not think I would have liked to attend his sermons, then.”

__

“The Old Testament speaks of a vengeful God, you know.”

__

“Yes. But I prefer the New Testament version—God is love.”

__

“Hmm.” She closed the book and slid it back to Castiel. “Whoever wrote this begs to differ.”

__

She drifted away to the shelves then back to Sam.  He couldn’t help but grin; they were kind of adorable together.

__

He read through the journal again, trying to make sense of it, hoping he could ascertain its purpose. He kept an eye on the library and noticed Dean kept giving him strange looks. They were hard to decipher. Whatever. It should not concern him.

__

Still, his eyes seemed to be magnetized by Dean. Just as he wished to understand the journal, he wanted to puzzle out the expression in Dean’s eyes.

__

xxxxxxxxxx

__

Right after he was logged into the computer, Dean began researching. The sooner he began, the sooner he could be finished. He always hated this part of the job.

__

For once, Dean was the more diligent brother. Sam was too busy flirting with the cute librarian, and Dean grinned to himself at the sight. He was happy for Sammy.

__

They’d split the research load in half. Dean would look up newspaper articles from 1933 until 1993 while Sam would peruse articles from 1853 until 1913. Dean moved in reverse chronological order, starting with 1993.

__

He gaped as he read the articles from twenty years ago. There was a picture of a completely demolished house and another of the two people who had been caught in the electrical fire. James and Amelia Novak. They appeared to be a lovely couple. All-American. Then there was a photograph of a little boy, the sole survivor. Castiel Novak. It smote Dean’s heart; the child was clearly in shock. He glanced at the adult version standing behind the library desk and noticed that Castiel seemed to have retained a smidge of that forlorn air. Something haunted seemed to lurk behind those vibrant blue eyes.

__

Two days ago, Dean had called him a douche. Well, surprise, surprise. Dean was the real douche. His questions had probably made Castiel relive the trauma all over again. He knew what that was like, which was why he stashed Mom in the back of his mind. The hell of that night . . .

__

_Mom_.

__

He stifled a whimper. Now was not the time; he didn’t want to make a scene in the damn library.

__

_Focus, Winchester. Let’s get this fuckin’ research over with_.

__

He returned to studying the content from 1993. There was another picture, this one of a firefighter holding a rescued Castiel. To everyone’s amazement, the boy had been uninjured despite being in the center of the blaze. No one could explain it.

__

Now there was an interesting twist. If he wasn’t afraid of triggering the guy again, Dean would have asked Castiel about it. He probably should, but no, he couldn’t do that to the man.

__

Some dude named Garth Fitzgerald IV had written a letter to the editor about seeing the ghost of a red-haired woman, Anna Milton, hanging around the Novaks’ property. A psychic, Missouri Moseley, reported feeling the anguish of Anna Milton’s ghost and witnessing her flit about town.

__

Garth Fitzgerald IV and Missouri Moseley. Dean noted them as people he and Sam should interview later.

__

He moved on to 1973. In that year, Ephraim Novak, James Novak’s father, had drowned in Pickett’s Lake, which was located a mere fifteen minutes away. On the weekends, Ephraim Novak had enjoyed spending time on the lake alone. But one weekend, he never came home, and his wife Hester had called the police. He’d been missing for almost a week when his body surfaced on the lakeshore. Again, townspeople had reported seeing the ghost of Anna Milton during the week before the odd death. Dean searched for Hester Novak in the _Picketsville Sentinel_ ’s archives and discovered she had died of lung cancer in 1991. Her maiden name had been Murphy, and her brother Jim was currently the pastor at First Baptist Church.

__

In 1953, town recluse Naomi Adler, the last of her family, had been found dead on her front steps. She’d collapsed there, but no one could determine why. Strange indentations had ringed her throat. Just as in 1993 and 1973, Anna Milton’s ghost had been spotted in town.

__

And 1933, of course, had seen the fire that had gutted the Yates Paper Mill. As with the later tragedies, people claimed to have glimpsed Anna Milton’s ghost.

__

In all four instances, the ghost had disappeared after the victims had died.

__

Dean pulled out a notepad and documented all the information he had just read. Dad had noted specifics about the fire at the mill but not the other incidents. For those, he’d just mentioned the circumstances surrounding the deaths: sightings of Anna Milton’s ghost, a lady dead on her doorstep, a drowning at a lake, and a fire. Now Dean could fill in the details.

__

As he worked, Dean’s eyes periodically strayed toward Castiel. The guy intentionally avoided looking at Dean, which was not surprising since Dean had been such a shit to him.

__

An indescribable sensation settled in Dean’s chest, painful but pleasant.

__

xxxxxxxxx

__

Sam and Dean compiled all of the past events into a list.

__

1833—Anna Milton Novak vanishes.

__

1853—The dead bodies of Reverend Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler are found in First Baptist Church, the word “sinner” carved into their stomachs.

__

1873—The first reported sighting of Anna Milton’s ghost. Sheriff Frank Devereaux is discovered slumped over his desk, his body cold, traces of a strange liquid on his chin.

__

1893—More sightings of Anna Milton’s ghost. In the cemetery, someone stumbles upon the bodies of Ezekiel Adler, Zachariah Adler’s eldest son, and Esper Novak, Anna and Uriel Novak’s son, draped over their respective father’s graves. Due to their age, the men are said to have died of natural causes, but that did not explain the peculiar circumstances.

__

1913—Inias Novak’s widow Rachel suddenly collapses while attending the town fair. She never wakes up. No cause of death could be determined. Incidentally, she is the granddaughter of Frank Devereaux. Again, more witnesses claim to have seen Anna Milton’s ghost.

__

1933—The Yates Paper Mill fire.

__

1953—Naomi Adler.

__

1973—Ephraim Novak.

__

1993—James and Amelia Novak.

__

xxxxxxxxxx

__

“You said you saw some genealogies here, Sammy?” Dean whispered to his brother.

__

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “Why?”

__

“It looks like the ghost goes after individuals from one of three families—the Novaks, Adlers, or Devereauxes.” Dean scratched his scalp. “The next victim would prob’ly belong to one of them. Though I think we can rule out the Adlers since Naomi Adler was the last one.”

__

“Hmm. Let me take another look.” Sam returned a moment later with the pertinent books and flipped through the pages. “Hey, it looks like Amelia Novak was originally a Devereaux.”

__

“Interesting.” The chick was definitely targeting those three families. But if so, why didn’t she go after every member of them? Why did she select only certain people?

__

“Okay, Dean, I’ve got six relevant names here. Five are from the Devereauxes. The sixth is that librarian over there.” Sam nodded in Castiel’s direction. “He’s the only Novak left,” Sam added.

__

“Great. So we’ve got six people we’ve gotta try to scope out,” Dean grumbled. “She’ll start appearing around whoever it is soon; then we’ll know who to follow so we can gank the ghost.” Dean was suddenly afraid that the next target was Castiel. But no. If Anna Milton wanted to kill him, wouldn’t she have done so twenty years ago? Besides, even if it was Castiel, why should he care? Beyond the obvious part of Castiel needing to be saved, of course. This dread he felt, though . . . it was different than the usual.

__

“I think we’re done here,” Dean decided. “Let’s go interview us some witnesses.”

__

xxxxxxxxxx

__

It saddened Sam to leave the library. He’d enjoyed getting to know Jess last night, and they had chatted more today. He’d see her again, he told himself.

__

First, he and Dean headed out to see some guy named Garth Fitzgerald IV. When they rang his doorbell, Garth, as he insisted they call him after they’d addressed him as Mr. Fitzgerald, enthusiastically urged them to come inside.

__

Sam raised his eyebrows at the living room’s décor. Nothing seemed to match: an obscenely neon green couch, an orange chair, a glass coffee table, and two floor lamps, one red and one purple. The wall contained a poster with a giant tooth proclaiming, “Keep me clean, keep me happy, or we’ll both have booboos!” The tooth’s sloppy grin matched Garth’s. Garth waved at the eyesore of a sofa and indicated they should sit down. Dean did so stiffly while Sam tried to relax.

__

“Can I get y’all some water or anything?” Garth inquired.

__

“Yeah,” Dean replied, “Got any beer?” Sam glared at him, and Dean pasted on a ridiculously innocent look. “What? He offered,” Dean whispered.

__

“No, we don’t keep beer here. No, siree,” Garth responded, as if he equated consuming beer with the highest of vices. He sat down in the chair. “Now, what can I help you two with?”

__

“I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean,” Sam began. Dean looked a bit miffed. Sam knew that Dean liked to take the lead, but he’d already goofed up enough on this visit. “We, uh, run a blog about haunted locations. We’re researching the ghost of Anna Milton.”

__

“Seriously?! You’re gonna write about Anna Milton?! Far out!” Garth exclaimed.

__

“Uh. Yeah. We understand that you saw the ghost back in 1993, and we wondered what you could tell us about her.”

__

“I sure did! Though everyone seems to think I’m the town kook for sayin’ so!” Sam could think of other reasons for designating Garth as the “town kook.”

__

“What can you tell us about her?”

__

“One night, I was drivin’ home late when I passed by the Novaks’ house. Then I saw it. _Her_. She had long red hair and wore a dress. She was transparent; I could see right through her. She stared straight at me, and it gave me the heebie-jeebies.” Garth shivered in an exaggerated fashion. “I sped on right outta there, let me tell ya!” He paused, and his voice turned morose. “A few days later, the fire happened. Those poor Novaks,” he sighed.

__

Sam jotted down some notes then looked back up at Garth. “Thank you. That was very helpful.”

__

“You’re welcome. Here, let me give ya somethin’.” He picked up a sticky note from the coffee table and wrote something on it. “My email address. Send me a link to your post when you’ve finished the story.”

__

“Uh, sure,” Sam replied as he accepted the Post-it note. “Will do. Bye, Garth. And thanks again.”

__

“Bye,” Dean echoed.

__

“Bye!” Garth called after them as they left.

__

“That guy was somethin’ else,” Dean murmured as he started the car.

__

“Yeah. Quite a character,” Sam agreed.

__

They drove to Missouri Moseley’s in silence. Dean whistled when they arrived at a run-down shack with a worn-out sign proudly declaring that the building housed, “Missouri Moseley, Psychic Extraordinaire!” “Nice digs,” Dean mumbled sarcastically.

__

Just as Sam was about to ring the doorbell, a diminutive, dark-skinned woman threw open the door. “Well, what do we have here!” she exclaimed. Sam was stunned. Had the psychic foreseen their arrival? “No, child!” she cackled. “I heard your car pull up.”

__

“You can read my mind?” Sam said. Dean quizzically glanced back and forth between Sam and Moseley.

__

“No, but I can read that expression on your face,” she explained.

__

“Oh,” Sam sighed in relief.

__

“Come inside, boys,” Moseley directed. They followed her into a crowded room with various psychic paraphernalia strewn all about. “Pardon the mess. Have a seat.” Dean and Sam sat down on a wooden bench, and Moseley perched on a chair across from them. After Dean and Sam introduced themselves, she asked, “Now, what can I do for ya?”

__

“We’re researching Anna Milton for a blog we write—”Sam started.

__

“That’s a crock a shit,” Moseley interrupted.

__

“Excuse me?” Sam spluttered. Dean chuckled to himself, but he abruptly ceased when Moseley stared daggers at him.

__

“I can read the energy around you boys. I’ve never seen somethin’ so jumbled, so much darkness and light together . . . I don’t know what to make of it.” Dean suddenly looked uncomfortable. “So much heartbreak,” she said, sorrow coating her voice. “Yet still so much love . . . it’s remarkable.” Dean shifted nervously, and Moseley turned to him. “Especially you. You’re gonna learn a lot about yourself during the next few days.”

__

“Huh?” Dean muttered.

__

Moseley looked back at Sam. “And you. You’re already experiencing something transcendent.” Sam blushed. Was she referring to his burgeoning affection for Jessica?

__

“Yeah. That’s nice,” Dean interjected. “But we really are researching Anna Milton.”

__

“You want to stop her.” Dean nodded. “I’m not sure she should be stopped.”

__

“But she’s killin’ innocent people!”

__

“Is she? I don’t know. I expect she will be making an appearance soon.” She lowered her voice. “That girl’s been through so much pain. Like you boys.”

__

“Do you know what happened to her?” Sam asked.

__

“No. I've just had a few things pop into my head, messages from her. Rage. Agony. Fear. Images of fire and blood. Once, it was a phrase: ‘Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.’”

__

“Something awful must have happened to her,” Dean observed. Sam thought he saw tears in Dean’s eyes, and he was surprised at how moved Dean seemed to be by Anna Milton’s pain.

__

“Yes. But that has not been revealed to me.”

__

“Thank you, Ms. Moseley. We appreciate you taking the time to talk with us,” Sam said.

__

“You boys be careful,” she cautioned.

__

When they slid back into the Impala, Dean swiped a hand over his eyes. “Dean?” Sam said hesitantly.

__

Dean flashed a grim smile. “Sorry, Sammy. I don’t know what came over me. I thought . . . I just felt somethin’ while Ms. Moseley was talkin’, y’know?” Sam nodded even though he did not know. Dean cleared his throat. “Anyway. Whatever happened to her, it doesn’t give her the right to go around murderin’ people.”

__

xxxxxxxxx

__

As Jessica was closing up the library for the night, she realized the paper in the copier needed to be restocked. She went into the storeroom to find paper and was about to switch on the light when an apparition appeared.

__

A red-haired woman with mournful eyes. She wore a dark brown gingham dress.

__

Jessica opened her mouth to shriek, but no sound came out. She clamped a hand over her mouth and stared.

__

The woman placed a finger over her lips as if urging Jessica to be quiet; then she vanished.

__

The vision lasted only a second.

__

Jessica flitted out of the room and picked up her phone. Had she just seen a ghost? Should she call Sam and tell him about it?

__

She tapped a finger on the phone’s screen as she contemplated her next move. No, she decided, there was no need to bother Sam. No doubt the woman had been a product of her imagination, brought on because she’d been discussing the supernatural with Sam.

__

Still, she didn’t return to the storeroom.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Exodus 34:7
> 
> **Numbers 14:18
> 
> ***Hosea 4:6
> 
> ****Lamentations 5:7
> 
> *****Leviticus 26:39-42
> 
> ******Romans 12:1
> 
> I know I included quite a few Bible verses, but they are relevant to the story. All verses are from the King James Version.
> 
> I used [this website](http://www.biblegateway.com/) to find Bible verses.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this chapter. As always, thoughts are welcome. :)


	6. Portent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally like to update on consecutive days, but this chapter just seemed to flow. It's not that long, but it would have been if I'd added the next part. Plus, as is, it's quite self-contained.
> 
> I really should get back to my NaNo novel, but I'll come back to this fic in a couple of days.
> 
> Also, I changed the rating to Teen because the only mature content so far is language. If that changes, I'll change the rating again.

It seemed like the entire town attended First Baptist Church on Sunday mornings. Not surprising in the Deep South, Dean reflected. Normally, he would avoid church services like the plague, but he and Sam wanted to ask Pastor Jim Murphy if his sister had ever mentioned seeing Anna Milton’s ghost. So Dean sat sullenly in the pew, each second feeling like an hour. The preacher was droning on about every soul being full of guilt and sin or some such shit, about how everyone is saved by the grace of God alone. Well, the reverend could shove that stuff back up his ass. God had never done jack for him.

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye and was amused to find him staring at his girlfriend librarian. Jessica Moore, he’d said her name was. This sermon was the type of crap Sam loved to lap up. He must really like this chick.

An older couple occupied the pew next to her. Her parents, presumably. Castiel Novak sat to her left, his attention rapt. His blue eyes shone with devotion, and Dean could just barf. But then he noticed that Castiel was wringing his hands, and he frowned. The man’s tranquility was a front for inner turbulence.

It took a couple of minutes for Dean to realize the service was over, that people were filing out and the preacher had stopped rambling. Thank God. Dean turned to Sam and raised his eyebrows, and Sam nodded.

They stood up and waited near the preacher so they could snag him once he finished his stupid conversation with an elderly couple. When the couple shuffled away, Dean stepped up to the pastor and extended a hand. “Dean Winchester,” he introduced himself. He waved a finger at Sam. “And this is my brother Sam.”

“Jim Murphy,” the man answered as he shook first Dean’s hand then Sam’s. “And I know.”

“You do?”

Murphy smiled. “Yes. I have heard tell of visitors named Winchester.”

“Oh.” Dean shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, this was a small town, and it wasn’t like they had anything better to talk about around here. Sam had said Jessica and Castiel knew about their line of work. Hopefully, the librarians hadn’t been spreading word around. They didn’t seem like the gossiping type, but Castiel had told Bobby Singer about it. Fuck. Would the trucker go around yapping about what the Winchesters did?

“What can I do for ya?” Jim Murphy asked.

“Sam and I are doin’ some research about ghosts—” Dean began.

“What for?” Had Dean imagined it, or had the pastor spoken a little too sharply?

“We write a blog,” Sam lied. Shit. The preacher wouldn’t buy that line, would he? The psychic hadn’t, but the eccentric dentist had.

“Oh. I see,” Murphy replied. “And you are planning to write about Anna Milton Novak?”

“Exactly.”

Murphy’s expression darkened. “Take my advice. Don’t.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Why not?”

“Because Picketsville doesn’t need that sort of attention. People comin’ here to look for a ghost that doesn’t exist.”

“Hey, it’d help the economy,” Dean quipped. Murphy glared at him. Dammit, couldn’t the guy take a joke?

“So, I take it you don’t believe in the ghost then?” Sam inquired.

“No. Of course not. God doesn’t let spirits roam the earth.”

“But what about your sister’s husband? Ephraim Novak?” Dean asked.

“That was an unfortunate accident,” Murphy declared. “People drown all the time.” He took a deep breath. “Now, get out of my church with these unholy questions.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said. Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Sam grabbed his arm and yanked him outside.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean groused. “We weren’t done.”

“Yes, we were. He obviously wasn’t going to tell us anything useful, and he was getting pissed off. The last thing we need is a guy like that hating us. He’s probably got a lotta influence around here.” Dean grumbled under his breath, but Sam was right. Sam suggested, “Why don’t we get some brunch?”

“Now you’re talkin’, Sammy.”

The diner was filled to the brim with people. Apparently, everyone came here after church for Sunday brunch. A waitress guided them to the only free space, a small booth, and Dean and Sam had to squash themselves to fit inside.

“Anythin’ to drink, darlin’s?” The waitress asked. Dean observed that she was in her mid-forties, her thick eyeliner aging her.

“We’ll have some coffee,” Sam answered.

“Comin’ right up.”

When the waitress brought them their coffee, they ordered. Dean wanted pancakes, eggs, and bacon, while Sam requested oatmeal and an apple. Dean snorted after the waitress left the table.

“What?” Sam muttered.

“Don’t you ever eat real food?” Dean gibed.

“Sorr-y if I don’t want to die of a heart attack.”

Dean was about to point out they probably wouldn’t live long enough to worry about heart attacks, but he kept that idea to himself. Jeez, that was a depressing thought.

To distract himself from his melancholy, Dean scanned the diner to see if he would recognize anyone. Jessica Moore and her parents took up a much more spacious booth. He also spotted Castiel and Bobby Singer sitting side by side at the counter. The trucker hadn’t been at church. Well, there was somethin’ he and the ornery guy could agree on.

“We should probably investigate that church,” Sam commented once the waitress had given them their food.

“What? Why?”

“Well, it _was_ commissioned by Uriel Novak. If something happened to Anna Milton . . . ”

“There might be clues,” Dean finished. If only Uriel Novak’s house was still standing, then they could search for potential clues there, too.

“Or even a skeleton hidden in some secret space.”

Dean shuddered. “That’s fuckin’ sick, man.”

“Hey, ‘sick’ is what we specialize in, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. So what, you wanna break into this church?”  


“How else are we gonna take a look inside? That pastor’s certainly not gonna let us waltz right in.”

“When? Tonight?”

“Yeah. Until then, we should probably check out a couple of sites from the other incidents.”

“Why? It’s not like we found a damn thing at the paper mill.”

“There’s no harm in checking.”

“Okay. Fine.”

They lapsed into silence as they ate, and Sam periodically glanced at Jessica. She eyed him, too, and they exchanged smiles. It looked like she was mouthing, “Come here,” but Sam, being the dumbass he was, acted as if he didn’t notice.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Dean urged.

“She’s with her parents,” Sam said.

“So? She obviously wants you to sit with them.”

“Fine,” Sam sighed. He picked up his dishes and moved to the Moores’ booth. Jessica beamed at him as he settled in and gestured between her parents and Sam. Huh. Those kids seemed to be falling hard for each other. Dean hoped they liked long-distance relationships.

Dean’s mind was at peace for once as he finished up his meal. But all of a sudden a loud clatter pierced through the restaurant’s incessant chatter. Everyone turned to the counter, where the noise had originated from.

It was Castiel.

His dishes had tumbled to the ground.

They’d tumbled to the ground because he was having a fit. Convulsions.

Singer had caught Castiel before he could fall to the floor. “Cas! Cas!” he shouted in his gruff voice. “Snap out of it, boy!” He sounded desperate.

It’s him. _It’s him_.

Castiel Novak was Anna Milton’s target.

Dean’s dread turned into full-on panic.

Singer hefted the librarian to his feet and swung Castiel’s arm around his shoulders as he dragged him out of the diner.

Dean had to follow them. He had to warn Cas.

He threw some dollar bills on the table and informed Sam he’d meet him back at the motel. Sam opened his mouth to launch into a question, but Dean held up a hand and rushed out of the establishment. He could explain everything to Sammy later.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel was eating pancakes, then the next thing he knew, he was shaking uncontrollably. He dimly heard Bobby begging him to snap out of it, as if through water, but he couldn’t stop no matter how much wanted to. He lost track of his surroundings, aware only of the paroxysms racking his body.

When they finally ceased, he found himself lying on Bobby’s couch with no idea of how he had gotten there. He was about to call for Bobby, but then there was a knock on the door. Castiel was afraid of what would happen if he tried to stand up, but luckily Bobby appeared and attended to it.

“Who the hell said you could come to my house?” Bobby grumbled. Castiel heard the rumble of another voice, slightly familiar, and no, it _couldn’t_ be, _why_ would it be--?

“Bobby? Who is it?” Castiel slurred.                                                                                                 

“One of those damn Winchester boys,” Bobby spat without turning around.

“Let him in,” Castiel demanded.

Bobby whipped around to look at him. “Ya can’t be serious?”

“I am.” Castiel was curious about why Dean Winchester had come here.

“Fine.”

After letting Dean in, Bobby retreated to another room. Castiel tried to sit up, but it made him dizzy, and he slumped back onto the sofa. “Hey now,” Dean said softly. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Castiel was confused. Why did Dean sound so gentle? Why did he look so worried? “What are you doing here?” Castiel rasped.

Dean crouched in front of the couch so they were at eye level. “Nice to see ya, too,” Dean bantered.

“What could you possibly have to say to me? You have made your contempt for me quite clear.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dean muttered. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m a bastard.”

“Yes, you are,” Castiel agreed, sounding more serious than he’d intended. He flinched at the sound of his own voice, but Dean merely chuckled.

Dean smoothed a hand through Castiel’s hair, and now Castiel was completely lost. Why was Dean touching him like that? With such intimacy?

And why did Castiel never want it to end?

“You all right?” Dean ventured.

“Yes. Thank you,” Castiel said sincerely.

Dean’s hand stilled, and his expression grew unsure. This close, Dean’s eyes were bewitching. The hazel dots scattered throughout the sea of mossy green. They were so earnest, too. “Um . . . ” Dean mumbled as he averted his eyes. When he looked at Castiel again, a shield had been drawn over his formerly unguarded expression. He licked his bottom lip. “You’re not gonna like this, Cas, but I’ve gotta tell ya. I think Anna Milton’s ghost is real.” Was that supposed to be news to Castiel? “And I think—no, I _know_ —she’s coming after you.”

Oh. Castiel laughed uncertainly. “That’s preposterous.”

“No. Sam and I can help.”

“I do not need any help, because the ghost does not exist,” Castiel scoffed.

“Then how do you explain what just happened to you?” Dean paused. “Do you remember anythin’ like that happening to your parents? You know, before—” Dean flushed.

“Do not bring them into this,” Castiel snapped. “There has to be a perfectly rational explanation for it. I will visit the doctor tomorrow and find out what the issue is.”

“Cas—”

“That’s it. End of discussion.”

“All right,” Dean sighed. He pulled out a small notebook and jotted something down before tearing out the piece of paper and handing it to Castiel. “But if you change your mind, here’s my phone number.”

“Thank you. Good-bye, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas.” Dean fixed him with a concerned look for a minute then strode out the door.

Castiel felt a strange dread in his gut. Could Dean be right about the ghost? He had never been prone to convulsions before. Would that explain the odd dream he’d had, the one in which he'd felt as if he was being burned from the inside out? It had seemed so vivid. But it was just a dream, surely?

No. There had to be a logical explanation.

 _Cas_.

Dean had called him Cas, and Castiel hadn’t corrected him. Nor did he wish to.

How peculiar.

Now, where was Bobby?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your thoughts are very welcome! :)


	7. Who Ya Gonna Call?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing my NaNo novel, I've gotten stuck. So I'm working on this fic some more.

Earlier, Dean and Sam had explored the old fairgrounds and Picketsville Lake, but as Dean had suspected would be the case, they’d found nothing. They’d sat around twiddling their thumbs until one a.m., when they finally felt it was safe to break into the church without people noticing. Dean had parked the Impala a couple of blocks away on a residential street. An unfamiliar vehicle there might be suspicious, but it wouldn’t be as suspicious as it would be in front of a damn church. Dean was in the process of picking the lock; this one was particularly sturdy.

“Hurry up, Dean,” Sam whined, his eyes glued to the street. “Someone might come.”

“I’m doin’ the best I can, Sammy,” Dean griped. Who the hell was gonna come? There would be nowhere for anyone to go at this time.

The lock snapped open. “Gotcha,” Dean whispered. “Am I good or what?” He shone his flashlight on Sam, who rolled his eyes. Dean pried the door open, and Sam shoved him inside.

“We should split up. Cover more ground,” Sam suggested.

“Yeah.”

Dean stayed in the main assembly room while Sam went to check out the back. Examining this space was a deceptively simple task. There could be secret nooks and crannies anywhere. First, Dean paced the expanse of the room, looking for anything obvious. Nothing. Of course. Why should it be that easy?

Next, he felt along the walls for any indentations. None. He ran his fingers over the pulpit. Again, nothing.

Great. How long would this fuckin’ take? There was still the floor and the pews. Even the ceiling could hold a hidden compartment.

Dammit, he was screwed.

He decided to save the pews and ceiling for last. He suspected the pews were an unlikely place for him to find anything useful, and the ceiling—well, that would just be a fuckin’ bitch to inspect. How would he even get up there? Maybe Sam would find a ladder in one of the other rooms.

Floor it was, then. He’d have to crawl around and look like a dumbass. Luckily, no one was here to witness that shit. Hopefully Sam wouldn’t reappear anytime soon.

He crawled slowly, feeling for strange holes and knocking on each square inch, listening carefully for any hollow sounds. He started from the back and worked toward the front. Then there, right in front of the pulpit—a hollow ring.

Bingo.

He scraped the floor with his fingernails but couldn’t find anything that would lift up. Oh, well. He’d have to break it, then. But how?

He remembered seeing a fire extinguisher in a case tucked away in the back corner. He could use that. After obtaining the fire extinguisher, he smashed it against the wooden floor until it splintered.

There _was_ something in the space below. A collection of medieval-looking chains.

“Dean, what was that noi--?” Sam began, stopping abruptly when he entered the room. “Holy shit!”

Dean flourished the sets of chains. “This shit ain’t holy,” he quipped.

“You tore up the floor! How’re we gonna fix that?”

“Doesn’t matter, Sammy. Look what I found.” Sam glanced at the chains for one second then returned to glaring at Dean. “This ain’t the kind of crap you find in a normal church,” Dean pointed out.

“No.—”

“This is our first real clue!”

“Maybe.”

“Stop worryin’ about the floor and take a look at these.” Sam approached, and Dean handed one of the items to Sam. There were four of them: chains for the wrists, the ankles, the neck, and something that appeared to be a freakin’ chastity belt. “That’s some kinky shit, right?” Sam stared at him as if he’d made the most distasteful joke imaginable. Hey, Dean could think of a lot worse.

Sam frowned. “What do you think they’re for?” Dean could think of a lot of uses for the chains, and he opened his mouth to say so, but Sam declared, “Keep your gross ideas to yourself.”

Sam was holding the wrist chains, and he stretched them out while Dean studied the ankle chains. With a fingertip, Dean traced a line that appeared to be rust but wasn’t the right hue. “You think that’s blood?” he asked Sam.

Sam squinted as he surveyed the line. “Yeah.”

“It’s on this, too,” Dean remarked as he pointed out the stain on the neck chain. “Do ya think it has to do with Anna Milton?”

“It might.”

“It might?” Dean balked. “I’d bet money on it.”

“So what, Uriel Novak was a perv?”

Dean chewed his lip as he contemplated the question. “Maybe. I think it goes deeper than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Missouri Moseley said she’d been through a lot of pain.”

“I think being subjected to these would qualify as ‘a lot of pain,’ Dean.”

“Yeah. But there’s somethin’ more. I don’t know how I know, I just do.”

“What, like you ‘know’ Castiel Novak is Anna Milton’s target?”

“ _Yes_.” He and Sam had argued when Dean had told him Anna Milton was going after Castiel. Sam had said Dean was “jumping to conclusions” and claimed they should still monitor the Devereauxes. Dean knew that would be a waste of time, though. The Devereauxes were moot. It was all about Castiel.

They had to find where the bitch was buried so they could gank her before she had a chance to harm Castiel.

Dean eyed the chains again and instantly regretted calling Anna Milton a bitch. Even without knowing the story behind the chains, he understood that it was one of horror. That kind of shit could drive anyone insane. Burning her body wouldn’t only save Castiel; it would put her out of her misery.

Dean had an idea. “Hey, Sam, ya think that psychic can read the energy behind these?”

“I don’t think we should ask her to do that.”

“Why not?”

“We’d have to tell her how we got them.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want anyone to know we broke into the church,” Dean remembered.

Sam waved at the torn-up floor. “So how’re we gonna fix this?”

“We don’t.”

“What?”

“C’mon, Sammy. No one’ll know it was us. They’ll probably think it was some local hooligans.”

“Local hooligans,” Sam repeated skeptically.

“Yeah. There’s gotta be some around here.”

“Whatever. It’ll have to do,” Sam sighed. “I don’t think we can repair this before morning.”

They took the chains and hid them somewhere discreet in the motel room, hoping they’d eventually find more pieces to complete the puzzle.

xxxxxxxxxx

Usually, Jessica closed the library in the evenings while Castiel opened it in the mornings, but today they’d switched shifts because Castiel had a doctor’s appointment. As she readied everything for business, she recalled yesterday morning, when she’d introduced Sam to her parents.

“Mom, Dad, this is Sam Winchester,” she supplied when Sam joined them.

Her parents each extended a hand, and Sam shook hands with them politely. “So, what do you do, Sam?” her dad inquired.

Sam looked as if he were at a loss for words, so Jessica answered, “He’s a researcher, Dad.” Sam smiled at her gratefully.

“Research, eh? What for?”

“Urban legends,” Jessica continued. For a fleeting second, Sam’s face was shocked, but he schooled it back to normality before her parents could notice.

“Can’t the guy talk for himself?” her dad gibed.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Jessica blushed.

“What’s the research for, Sam?” her dad asked.

“I plan on writing a book. It’s about America’s least known urban legends,” Sam replied.

“You must hafta dig deep for that.”

Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, and Jessica felt sorry for him. He was clearly nervous. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess. You want to put Anna Milton in your book.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Dad turned to Mom. “Isn’t that somethin’, hon? Picketsville could become famous!”

“What a novel idea,” her mom commented.

“What do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Moore? If I may ask?” Sam posited.

“Of course!” Dad exclaimed. “I’m an accountant, and my wife is a teacher.”

“Middle school,” Mom elaborated.

“You must be a saint,” Sam joked.

Her mom laughed. “Everyone says that, but it’s not that bad.”

An unexpected commotion disrupted their small talk. All four of their heads whipped around to the counter, where Castiel seemed to be having a seizure. “Oh, my God,” Jessica whispered. She’d never seen Castiel in such a state.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know.”

Bobby propped Castiel up and shuffled out of the diner. A second later, Sam’s brother dashed to their table.

“I’ve gotta go,” Dean announced. “I’ll meet you back at the motel, Sam.” Sam’s lips parted, but Dean threw up a hand then sprinted out of the restaurant.

“Who was that?” her dad asked.

“My brother,” Sam said. Her dad’s face contained a question, so Sam added, “He’s helping out with the research.”

“Oh.”

With wide eyes, Jessica stared at the spot recently vacated by Bobby and Castiel. “I hope Cas is okay,” she fretted.

Her dad clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m sure he’s fine, sweetie. Bobby’ll take care of him.”

They finished their meal; then Sam left for the motel.

“You really like this guy,” Dad observed as he and Mom drove her home.

“Yeah. I do,” Jessica admitted.

“He seems nice, but be careful. Don’t move too fast.”

“I _know_ ,” Jessica huffed. “I’m not stupid, Dad.”

“I know you’re not. Just—be careful,” he reiterated.

“She knows, dear,” Mom inserted.

Now, alone in the library, Jessica allowed herself to fantasize for a few minutes. She pictured Sam, freakishly tall and lanky, his sensitive hazel eyes, that floppy brown hair that she wanted to run her hand through . . .

Something about him just _clicked_ with her.

But there could be nothing serious with him, not with his peripatetic lifestyle.

 _Stop daydreaming_ , she told herself. Then she remembered she’d never refilled the copier. _Better do it before I forget_. She winced when she recalled Saturday, how she’d let her imagination run away with her.

She entered the storeroom and grabbed a sheaf of paper. _See?_ she reassured herself. _Nothing here_.

But as soon as she flicked off the light, she saw it again.

The apparition.

A red-haired woman who almost seemed to glow in the dark. She wore the same brown dress as last time.

Jessica shrank against the door and closed her eyes. Surely the woman would be gone by the time she opened them.

But that was not the case.

When she pried her eyes open, the woman was still there.

Jessica gazed back at her defiantly. She refused to be cowed by what she saw. Her eyes absorbed the details of the woman, her large dark green eyes, her pale skin, two infinitesimal flecks of blood, one on her left temple, one on her cheekbone. A tiny red mark on her clavicle.

The woman’s eyes met Jessica's, their expression hard. Then she simply dissolved.

Jessica scurried out of the storeroom and shoved the paper into the copier, her fingers trembling.

After finishing that task, she snatched up her phone. She had no doubt about it now: she _had_ seen a ghost.

Anna Milton.

She needed to tell Sam.

Just as she was about to dial him, Castiel burst in, his face ashen.

The phone slipped from her fingers.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel had promised Dean he would visit the doctor, and he had procured an appointment for as soon as he could on Monday morning. He wasn’t going for Dean, of course, not really; he needed to know why he’d had that fit yesterday. Still, he couldn’t wait to call Dean and smugly inform him that there was a bona fide medical explanation for his convulsions. Then Dean would have no choice but to regard Anna Milton’s ghost as a myth, maybe even realize his belief in the supernatural was insane.

Dr. Walker performed many tests, and at the end of the appointment, he discussed the results with Castiel, who perched on the edge of the examination table.

“Everything seems to be normal,” Dr. Walker informed Castiel as he scanned the files in his hands.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked. “Then why did I have a seizure yesterday?”

Dr. Walker shrugged. “Maybe it was a freak accident?”

“Perhaps,” Castiel muttered. He was dubious, though.

“Make another appointment if it happens again,” Dr. Walker suggested.

Castiel nodded. “All right.”

Dr. Walker stepped toward the door and placed his hand on the knob. At that moment, Castiel suddenly felt as if he was choking. He coughed and clutched at his throat. There was a substance there, and he struggled to throw it up before it could cut off his air.

Too late. He couldn’t breathe.

Something wet spilled out of his mouth, passing through his lips and dribbling down his cheeks and onto his neck, coating his fingers.

It was water.

Why was Dr. Walker merely staring at him? Why didn’t he try to help?

Castiel lurched backward so that he was lying on the examination table. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but they wouldn’t stay upright.

His fingernails were digging into his throat.

Then just as abruptly, it was all over.

He could breathe again. Thank goodness. His arms fell to his sides as his body completely collapsed against the table.

“Would you mind if I suggested something, Castiel?” Castiel shook his head, hoping Dr. Walker could tell him something— _anything_ —that would logically explain what had just occurred. “You might look into conversion disorder or somatization disorder.”

“Why? What are they?”

“You might think of them as a kind of hypochondria. With conversion disorder, your body produces physical symptoms because of stress. With somatization disorder, you experience physical symptoms, but there’s no known cause.”

“I am _not_ a hypochondriac,” Castiel objected.

“I didn’t say you were.” Was it his imagination, or had Dr. Walker taken a snide tone? “Like I said, just look into it.”

After Dr. Walker left the room, Castiel realized his face and hands were dry. Despite experiencing the sensation, he hadn’t coughed up any water.

Castiel let himself lie on the table for a minute, his body feeling leaden. When a nurse came in to hand him a printout summarizing the visit, he sat up and tentatively pressed his feet to the ground.

As he drove to the library, Castiel became increasingly certain that Dean was right, no matter how ludicrous the idea of curses and ghosts seemed. Dr. Walker’s ideas were more rational and thus more likely, but they struck his instincts as all wrong.

If no one could stop the curse, he’d be dead by the end of the week.

Castiel’s blood turned to ice at the thought. He had no desire to die. _Please God, don’t let me die_ , he prayed.

When he arrived at the library, he rushed inside and found himself facing a startled Jessica, her countenance pale. She dropped her phone.

“What’s wrong, Jessica?” Castiel asked as he shut the door.

“I—” She swallowed. “What about you? What happened?”

“I—you go first.”

“No, you.”

“I asked first.” He knew it was a childish argument, but he had to brace himself for the ridicule he was sure to encounter.

“Fine. You’re going to think this sounds like I’ve lost my mind, but I saw her. Anna Milton. In the storeroom.”

“You did?” he breathed. She nodded, and he inwardly sighed in relief. Maybe she wouldn’t think he was crazy, then. He took a deep breath then confessed, “I think Anna Milton means to kill me.”

“What? Why?” she asked, her tone fearful.

He explained everything to Jessica, including Dean’s words yesterday, the bizarre dream, and the incident at the doctor’s office. “I need to call Dean,” he concluded.

“I was about to call Sam,” she said.

“Okay. That’s good. You call Sam, and I will call Dean. Surely one of them will answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the doctor is Gordon Walker. 
> 
> The explanations of conversion disorder and somatization disorder have been cobbled together from what I gathered via cursory googling, so they are ridiculously simplified.
> 
> Thanks for reading! It's very much appreciated! Your thoughts are also welcome!


	8. Powwow

After breakfast, Sam and Dean drove to the plot of land where James and Amelia Novak had lived. It was empty now; no one had ever rebuilt the house, which left a gaping hole on the neighborhood street. Dean parked by the curb, and Sam immediately strode toward where the house used to stand.

“I don’t know what ya think you’re gonna find, Sammy,” Dean complained for the millionth time. “Anna Milton isn’t buried here. She didn’t leave clues at any of the other sites. Why do we hafta look at them all?”

“It doesn’t hurt to be thorough,” Sam reminded Dean once again. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve got any other leads.”

“There’s the chains,” Dean pointed out. Sam stopped suddenly, and Dean almost bumped into him. “Jeez, Sam, give a guy some warning, will ya?”

Sam ignored Dean’s testy remark. “And what do you think we’re gonna do with those chains, huh? We don’t even know where to start.”

Dean shrugged. “I’m sure you can think of something.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair, and Sam directed a baleful glare at his older brother. “You’re the smart one.”

Sam hated when Dean put himself down passive-aggressively like this. Dean underestimated his worth by a mile, but there was no use in trying to reason with Dean about the matter. Dean always seemed skeptical of Sam’s reassurances, so he chose not to engage with the last statement. “Well, I can’t think of anything right now,” Sam said.

“Fine.” Sam continued his trek over the land, brittle grass cracking underneath his boots with each step he took. Finally, he arrived at the concrete slab and paced its length. When he reached the middle, he heard a crunch underneath his feet. He bent down to see what he’d stepped on.

A strand of fine red hair, surprisingly sturdy.

“Dean, look at this,” Sam urged when Dean approached him.

“What?” Dean muttered. “It’s hair. Probably from some kid.”

“There’s an odd sheen to it. You don’t see that?” The red thread emanated a muted light that Sam would be hard pressed to describe. Perhaps it was what psychic energy would look like if it could somehow be solidified.

“So? It’s probably just the way the sun is shinin’ or somethin’.”

“No, Dean. It’s halfway corporeal.”

“Corporeal. Don’t ya ever speak English, Sammy?” Dean teased. Damn, sometimes Dean could be annoying.

Sam’s phone rang, depriving him of the chance to make a witty comeback. He glanced at it and frowned. “It’s Jess.”

“What, she gonna invite you over for some hot library sex?”

 _You’re not as funny as you think you are_. Sam ignored him, pocketed the lock of hair, and answered the phone. “Hello?” Sam said. A second later, “She’s My Cherry Pie” erupted from Dean’s phone. Who’d be calling him? Whatever.

“Hi, Sam,” Jess replied. “I . . . I have something to tell you.”

“What’s up?”

A sharp intake of breath. “I saw her in the library. Anna Milton.” Sam was too stunned to say anything for a minute. “Sam?” Jessica prompted.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’ll tell Dean and we’ll come check it out, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Sam.”

“See you in a bit.”

He hung up and glanced at Dean, who’d wandered off to the Impala. Sam strolled toward the car, and by the time he arrived, Dean was done on the phone. “That was Cas,” Dean announced. “He, uh . . . he believes me. He says he had some choking fit at the doctor’s office.”

“Jess said she saw the ghost at the library,” Sam reported. Dean stared at him with wide eyes.

So. Anna Milton was hanging out at the library. Castiel Novak (why was Dean suddenly calling him “Cas” as if they were best buds?) had experienced at least two unexplainable phenomena.

Dammit, Dean was correct. All signs pointed to Castiel as the next target.

“We should probably head to the library.” Sam lowered his eyes and mumbled, “Since she’s going after Castiel Novak.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. What was that?” Dean replied.

“She’s going after Castiel Novak,” Sam repeated in a louder voice, annoyed at himself for indulging Dean.

Dean slapped him on the back. “See, Sammy? I’m always right.”

“You just got lucky,” Sam muttered under his breath.

They jumped into the car, and Dean drove to the library. When they entered the building, they discovered two nervous librarians standing behind the checkout counter. Sam prepared to ask Jessica about the ghost, but before he could say anything, Dean demanded, “Tell us about what happened at the doctor’s office, Cas.” Sam frowned at Dean’s pushy tone.

Castiel swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. He clutched the edge of the counter as if relying on it for support. “The doctor told me there was nothing wrong with me. Then I . . . ” He placed a hand on a tendon located on the side of his neck. “I was choking. I thought water was bubbling out of my throat, but when it was over, I realized the water had not been real. Thank goodness I did not tell Dr. Walker about that part; he might have committed me.” He mumbled the last sentence as if to himself then spoke more loudly when he continued. “Dr. Walker hypothesized that I could have conversion disorder or somatization disorder, but I believe he is wrong.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Conversion disorder and somatization disorder? What’s that?”

“You have symptoms of sickness, but there’s not a cause. Or anxiety is the cause. I can’t remember which is which,” Sam chimed in.

Dean patted him on the back. “Good ole Sam. Always the walking encyclopedia.” Sam looked askance at Dean, and Dean flashed him a smartass grin before turning back to Castiel. “How do ya know the doc’s wrong? I thought you were Mr. Logic. Why don’t you buy Dr. Walker’s explanation?” There was an edge to Dean’s voice, and Castiel winced at it.

“Leave the guy alone, Dean,” Sam urged. “He’s been through enough.” Castiel glanced at Sam with irritation. What was his problem? Did he enjoy having Dean behave like an asshole toward him? Sam changed the topic before either Dean or Castiel could snipe at him. “Jess, can you tell us about the ghost?”

Jessica answered, “Yeah. I got a good look at her. She had long red hair, just as people say, and these really intense green eyes. She was wearing a brown dress. It was weird . . . like there was a soft light surrounding her. Then there was the blood . . . just two dots of it, one on her temple and one on her cheek. And a mark at the base of her neck.”

“A mark? What kind of mark?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. An indentation, maybe? Like someone had pressed the tip of something hard against it.”

The light. That was also interesting. Sam wondered if it resembled the light given off by the strand of hair he’d found. He planted his hand in his pocket and searched for the piece of hair, but an old lady tottered into the library, arresting Sam in the middle of the action. He left his hand in his pocket and gazed at the librarians.

“We’ll finish this discussion later,” Dean decided, leaning on an elbow he’d propped onto the counter, his face inches from Castiel’s. “Why don’t y’all meet us at the motel when you get off? Room six.”

Castiel eyed Jessica uncertainly as he enunciated, “Yes.”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “I’ll be there, too.”

“Great. See ya then.”

xxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel flipped off the lights then joined Jessica by the door. Even though her shift had ended thirty minutes ago, she had stayed in order to wait for Castiel. He followed her outside and locked the door behind them.

“Should we carpool?” Jessica asked.

“Why don’t we walk?” Castiel suggested. “The Picketsville Inn is only two blocks away.”

“But we don’t know how long we’re gonna be there. What if it’s late when we leave?”

She had a point, but he was not worried. “I do not think the time we leave will matter. Besides, if it becomes necessary, I am sure that Dean or Sam could drive us back.”

“Yeah. All right.”

It was a bit chilly, so they wrapped their coats tightly around themselves, strolling in companionable silence. Castiel savored the sunset, appreciating that he did not always have to talk when with Jessica. It was calming, and he relished being alone with his thoughts. He felt a bit apprehensive about meeting the Winchesters at the motel, and he could perceive that Jessica did as well. But when juxtaposed with the possibility that he could die before the end of the week . . . it made his anxiety seem foolish. It didn’t take them long to reach the inn, and as they passed the front office, they encountered Rufus Turner, the proprietor of the establishment.

“What’re you kids doin’ here?” Turner asked.

“Visiting your guests,” Jessica answered.

“Oh. Those boys. Interestin’ people. It’s nice to have some business for a change.”

“I bet.”

“Well, you two have fun.” He hopped into his car and drove off the premises. No doubt he was going to the Roadhouse; he was a regular guest there. They continued down the sidewalk until they spotted room six. Jessica rapped on the door, and it swung open to reveal Dean, who seemed to fill up the entire doorway.

Dean took one look at Castiel and burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel wondered.

“Seriously, Cas? That trench coat? What are you, some serial flasher?”

Castiel gritted his teeth as he shrugged off the tan overcoat and placed it in the closet next to Jess’s. “It is a perfectly decent coat,” he opined.

Dean didn’t respond to the comment, so Castiel studied the interior of the room. One bed’s covers were wildly strewn about while the other bed was neatly made up. The color of the walls reminded him of tapioca, and the light brown carpet was somewhat frayed. A generic picture of a waterfall hung above the bedside table between the beds. In the far corner stood a small round table with two empty beer bottles and various foodstuffs. A large half-eaten burger, two smaller uneaten burgers, a salad, and a large bag of fries. An untouched pie occupied the center of the table.

Dean gestured toward the food and awkwardly announced, “Um. We got you dinner. If you want. We figured you might not have eaten yet.” He donned a slightly apologetic look. “We didn’t know what you guys wanted, so we just got burgers and–”

Castiel smiled, touched by this unexpected consideration. “This is wonderful. Thank you, Dean. Where is Sam?”

Just as Castiel finished his question, Sam emerged from the bathroom. “Hi, guys,” he greeted them.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hey, Sam,” Jessica echoed.

“We’ve got more beer,” Dean declared.

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel replied.

“C’mon, what’s a powwow without a little alcohol.” Dean procured two bottles of beer and handed one to Jessica then the other to Castiel. As Castiel accepted the bottle, his fingers grazed Dean’s, and he felt something unfamiliar he couldn’t define. It took him aback, and he had to remind himself to maintain his balance as he twisted the cap off with unsteady fingers. Jessica gulped down a substantial portion with her first taste, and Castiel stared at her.

“What?” she said. “I need a drink.” Dean chuckled then grabbed the partially eaten burger, cracked open a beer for himself, and plopped down on the unmade bed. Sam picked up the salad and a beer and deposited himself on the other bed.

“You guys can have the table,” Dean offered. Castiel and Jessica settled themselves in the two chairs and unwrapped their burgers.

“What kind of pie is this?” Castiel inquired, curious.

“Apple. The best damn pie in the whole universe.”

“I like pecan.” Castiel had not meant to dispute Dean, just reflect on the pie he loved best. However, after he uttered the words, he realized they could be taken as oppositional, and he regretted them.

But luckily Dean seemed to receive his remark with good humor. “Pshaw. Pecan’s cool, but apple’s classic, man.”

“Can we get down to business?” Sam interjected.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Sammy,” Dean quibbled.

“We _do_ have serious matters to discuss.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Dean fished underneath his bed and retrieved four sets of chains. “So. These are our only clues so far. They mean anything to either of you?”

Jessica shook her head, and Castiel inquired, “Where did you find those?”

“A little place called First Baptist.”

Castiel smiled, amused. “You’re the ones who broke into the church,” he realized. He recalled reading an article in the _Sentinel_ this morning that discussed the break-in. Pastor Murphy had lamented the state of society when even a church was no longer considered off-bounds to troublemakers.

“Dean! Why did you have to tell them? Now they’re going to inform on us!” Sam chided.

“We will do no such thing,” Jessica objected, pinning Sam with an affronted gaze. “What do you think we care more about, tattle-telling or saving Castiel’s life?”

Sam glanced away, embarrassed. “Well, when you put it like that . . . ” he muttered.

“See, Sammy, you worry too much,” Dean concluded.

Castiel contemplated Jessica’s words. _Saving Castiel’s life_. It reinforced how much danger he was in, and he found it difficult to maintain his normally stoic demeanor.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked. Castiel nodded. “You’re not thinkin’ of runnin’ to the cops, are ya?” he gibed.

“No. Of course not,” Castiel murmured.

“So, y’all don’t recognize the chains. We don’t, either.” He gestured toward a book on the bedside table. “We looked in Dad’s journal, but there’s no mention of anythin’ like this.”

Castiel squinted as he attempted to make out the details of the objects lying on the bed next to Dean. “Is that a chastity belt?” he posited, disbelieving.

“Yep. There’s blood on everything, too. Wanna see?”

“Yes.”

Dean ambled toward Castiel and handed him the items one by one so he could examine them. With a finger, Dean outlined the trickles of blood. “Fascinating,” Castiel pronounced.

Dean snickered. “Who are you, Mr. Spock?”

“I do not understand that reference.”

“Seriously? You’ve never seen _Star Trek_?”

“No, never.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, we’re just gonna have to fix that sometime, aren’t we?”

“Dean,” Sam admonished.

“Yeah. Right. Business. You wanna take a look at these, Jessica?”

“No, thank you. I’m eating,” Jess replied.

Dean retreated back to his bed. “So. Sam and I think they belonged to Uriel Novak and that he, um, used them with his wife.”

“Why would he do that?” Castiel asked.

“He was a fuckin’ psychopath?”

“It could explain why Anna Milton is so distressed,” Jess pointed out.

“Yep.”

“We also found this,” Sam interjected as he withdrew a lock of hair from his pocket. Castiel couldn’t really see it, but even from this distance it radiated a strange aura.

Sam approached Jessica and showed her the strand. Jessica gasped. “That’s not normal hair,” she observed.

“God,” Dean said as he rolled his eyes. “It’s just hair, for chrissakes. Tell ’em, Cas.”

Why was Dean appealing to him? Was it because of his usual insistence on staying rational? Sam stuck the piece of hair beneath Castiel’s eyes, and Castiel was almost hypnotized by its subtle interplay of light. He placed a fingertip on the lock and felt a faint secretion of warmth. “Where did you find this?” he asked as he continued to marvel at the red strand.

“Um.” Sam blushed. “On the land where . . . um, y’know. Your childhood home.”

“Oh,” Castiel breathed.

“Well, Cas? Whatcha think?” Dean prompted.

“I believe the hair is significant,” Castiel proclaimed. Sam beamed at Dean, his expression smug.

“Great,” Dean said. “So, we’ve got some freaky-ass chains and some hair. What’re we supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “We’ll just hafta find more clues.”

“But where’re we gonna look?”

“The sites of the other incidents? We’ve still got Naomi Adler’s place and the cemetery.”

“Do ghosts talk?” Jessica inquired.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Sam answered. “Why?”

“Maybe we could try asking her?”

“Why not,” Dean scoffed.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Sam argued.

Castiel did not agree. If Anna Milton’s ghost wanted to tell them what had occurred, she probably would have by now. Perhaps Sam was trying to flatter Jessica because he had a crush on her.

“Sorry,” Dean apologized. “This has been practically useless. At least there’s pie.” He found a knife and cut four generous pieces of pie then passed them around.

Castiel moaned with pleasure as he bit into the soft flaky crust; Castiel couldn’t help it, for experiencing one of the diner’s pies was pure bliss. Dean’s eyes almost bugged out of his head at the noise, and Castiel grinned, satisfied that he could provoke such a reaction from the elder Winchester.

“I guess y’all might be wantin’ to go home now?” Dean said after he finished his piece and shoved his plate aside.

“That would be best,” Castiel agreed.

“Okay. I’m takin’ you home.”

“That will not be necessary, but you can transport me to my car if you would like.” For some reason, Dean’s lips quirked up at the word “transport.”

“Nah. I’m takin’ you home, and I’m spendin’ the night.”

“What?” Castiel spluttered.

“Someone’s gotta watch over you. Make sure you’re safe from, y’know. Anna Milton.”

 _Oh_. Castiel’s heart sank. “No. That is kind, but you do not need to do that. I will be fine. I will be in my home, after all.”

“I think you and I both know that’s not a guarantee of safety.”

Castiel’s eyes filled with tears as he gave a curt nod. Of course, Dean was right. His parents had died in their home, so why couldn’t he? He closed his eyes to still the threatening tears before they could overflow past his eyelids.

“Let’s go,” Dean urged when Castiel opened his eyes.

“What about my car? I cannot leave it at the library.”

“Sure you can. I’ll drop you off there tomorrow. What’s gonna happen to it in this dump?”

Castiel did not appreciate Dean calling his hometown a dump, but he decided to shelve his irritation for the time being. “Okay. Take me home, Dean.”

“See ya later,” Dean called to Sam and Jess. “You two lovebirds have fun.” He winked ostentatiously at Sam, who gazed back at Dean with a murderous look in his eye.

“Good-bye Sam, Jess,” Castiel said before grabbing his jacket and following Dean out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why Sam didn't mention that he and Dean hadn't investigated the site of Frank Devereaux's death, the explanation is that they checked out that place after going to the library. That information didn't fit smoothly into the chapter, but I didn't forget about the location of that event.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If you feel so inclined, let me know what you think!


	9. A Ring of Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this is the longest chapter so far.

Dean led Castiel to the Impala then slid inside. He waited for Castiel to join him in the car, but he just stood there staring at God knew what.

Dean flung open his door and sprang to his feet, propping his head against the top of the door as he faced Cas. “You gonna get inside?” he prompted.

Castiel blinked then answered, “Oh. Sorry. I was just admiring your car. It is beautiful.” He ran a hand over the roof in one slow smooth movement, almost like a caress, his eyes matching the motion.

Oh. Who knew. Mr. Librarian had good taste. “Damn straight,” Dean agreed. “Let’s go.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, the action idiosyncratic but somehow endearing, as he considered Dean’s words. Finally, he smiled (ever so slightly) and said, “All right.” He ducked into the car, and Dean returned to the driver’s seat.

As Dean navigated through the streets, Castiel provided him with directions. Eventually, they arrived at a small white clapboard house with a wide screened-in porch. It was even more in the middle of freakin’ nowhere than the town itself, surrounded by nothing other than fields of grass.

“Why do you live so far away?” Dean asked.

“What?” Castiel replied.

Dean gestured at the empty land. “Isn’t it kinda creepy having your house be the only thing in sight?”

“I rather enjoy it.”

“You would,” Dean muttered to himself, and Castiel gazed back with a puzzled expression. Had the guy heard him? Whoops. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“’Kay, hoss, let’s go inside,” Dean suggested. After they tumbled out of the car, Dean popped open the trunk and took out an extra set of clothes, a gun, and an iron rod. “You got salt, right?”

“Yes, of course. Why?”

“Just makin’ sure we’re armed.”

“What’s all that stuff for?” Dean caught a glimpse of Cas beside him, noticing how the pale moonlight struck his blue eyes. It imbued them with a preternatural shine, an ethereal beauty, and _could you get any more girly, Winchester?_

“Iron repels ghosts. The gun’s loaded with salt pellets. Salt burns them.”

“Oh.” Castiel pronounced the syllable as if Dean had just explained the most mundane facts in the world. How odd. For the past few days, the guy had scoffed at the existence of the supernatural, and now that he had accepted the possibility, it was as if everything relating to it was perfectly ordinary. “I suppose that means the Ghostfacers were right.”

What the fuck? “You know about the Ghostfacers?”

“Jessica showed them to me,” he confirmed.

Dean snorted. “Freakin’ amateurs. They might as well be Abbott and Costello.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. We’ll pour salt in front of all the doors and windows before you go to sleep. A ring around your bed, too.”

“You want me to sleep in a ring of salt,” Castiel deadpanned.

“’Course. Can we go inside now? It’s fuckin’ freezing.”

“Yes.”

Dean traipsed behind Cas and followed him inside after he’d unlocked the door. They stepped into a modest, cozy living room. The wooden floors seemed to be finely polished, and a circular wooden coffee table stood in the center atop a light blue rug. A dark blue couch and loveseat were positioned behind and to the side of the coffee table, respectively, and a TV leaned against the wall in front of it. On the other side of the coffee table was a tiny fireplace with a mirror hanging above it to give the room an illusion of space. “This is nice,” Dean commented.

“Thank you.” Dean deposited the items in his hands onto the loveseat then tugged off his jacket. Afterward, he glanced around uncertainly as he tried to ascertain where he should put it. “Oh,” Castiel said. “I’ll take that.” He scooped the jacket out of Dean’s hands and hung it up in the front hall’s coat closet then placed his ratty trench coat next to it.

“Where do you want me to do with the rest of this stuff?” Dean asked, pointing at the pile on the loveseat.

“You can leave it there, I suppose.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. And you may sleep on the couch, if you want. Regrettably, I do not have a guest bedroom.”

“Uh. Thanks. But I don’t plan on sleepin’.” Castiel cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve gotta make sure everythin’ stays kosher all night.” Castiel looked crestfallen, as if Dean had just hurt his feelings, and Dean had no idea why. Whatever. “Hey, you mind if I use your shower?” He needed some time to think, and he always appreciated a proper shower.

“No. Go ahead,” Castiel responded as he settled onto the couch.

“Thanks.”

“There are towels in the bathroom cabinet,” Castiel called to Dean’s retreating form.

“Got it,” Dean shouted.

Like the living room, the bathroom was immaculate, the gleaming white tiles matching the walls. A blue shower curtain was drawn around an old-fashioned tub. Dean shed his clothes and ventured into the shower, savoring the warm water as it cascaded over his body. The water pressure in here was excellent, much better than the weak spray in the motel.

Castiel was the strangest person he’d ever met, he reflected. He’d encountered a lot of weirdoes, so that was sayin’ somethin’. He had a feeling his meager experience with the librarian only scratched the surface.

It was a subtle kind of strangeness, he decided. It wasn’t like when you first met the guy, you thought, whoa, that guy’s not normal. But it was there in his mannerisms. Like his word choices, his social awkwardness. Yet it wasn’t a social awkwardness that turned you off from him; quite the opposite. It was a social awkwardness that drew you to him, made you want to learn more about this quirky librarian.

He was also quite possibly the most reserved person Dean had ever met. But again, it didn’t repel you, not once you’d spent a little time with the guy, anyway.

And _could you get any gayer with your thoughts, Winchester._

Sam. Yeah, he should think about Sam. He wondered if Sam and Jessica would fuck tonight. He’d all but left them the motel room for that purpose. Not that spending the night at Cas’s was an excuse for that; God, no. He really had to protect the man. But it had been a while since Sam had liked a girl, and he deserved a little private time with her.

Satisfied that he was clean, Dean stepped out of the shower and toweled off, carefully fluffing his hair. When he was dry, he drew on a new pair of jeans and a green plaid shirt. He grinned at himself in the mirror. _You look damn good, Winchester_. He threw the towel in the hamper and padded into the living room.

“Your shower is amazing, Cas,” he told the librarian as he gripped the back of the couch and leaned on it behind Cas.

Castiel turned around and pasted on one of those tentative smiles. “I’ve always liked it.”

Dean’s eyes drifted to the TV, where a documentary seemed to be playing. “What the hell are ya watchin’?”

“It is Ken Burns’s _Civil War_ ,” Castiel huffed.

“Nerd.” Dean was tempted to ruffle his hair as he sometimes did with Sam, but of course he refrained from that shit. What the fuck was wrong with him? “Hey, where’s your salt?”

“In the pantry.”

Dean strolled into the kitchen and rummaged around in the cupboard until he found a large can of Morton’s Salt. He methodically moved through the house, pouring salt lines under every window and door to the outside. Nothin’ was gettin’ in on his watch. He saved the ring around Castiel’s bed for last. After completing the task, he returned to the living room.

“You’ve really got nothin’ better to watch?” Dean griped.

“This is my house, and I will watch whatever program I please,” Castiel retorted. _Fair enough_. His eyes rolled toward Dean. “You may sit down, if you like.”

“Why not.” He sank into the couch on the opposite end from Castiel and looked at the TV, because what else was he gonna do? Two hours later, the credits for Episode 9 were rolling, and a disappointed Dean realized, “It’s over?”

There was that tiny smile again. “You enjoyed that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Dean protested. “It was just a question.”

The smile grew. “You enjoyed it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did _not_.”

“Did _too_.”

“Whatever.” Dean gave up. “But tomorrow we’re watchin’ _Star Trek_. You need some edumacating.”

“If you say so.” Castiel stood up. “I think it is time I turned in for the night, if that is okay?”

“Sure.” Dean accompanied Castiel to his room; he chuckled when he flicked on the light. “You were serious about the ring of salt around my bed.”

“Yep. Careful. Don’t step on it.”

Castiel nimbly skipped over the salt line and proceeded to his bed, where he picked up a white T-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants. “May I have some privacy?” he asked.

“Uh. Yeah. Of course.” Embarrassed, Dean backed out of the room and shut the door. He lay down on the couch and, despite his best intentions, eventually fell asleep.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Castiel closed his eyes and welcomed sleep. He experienced a blissful blankness, until he didn’t.

He was seven years old again, his mom tucking him into bed. “Sweet dreams, my dear Castiel,” she said as she planted a kiss on his forehead.

“G’night, Mommy,” he replied. She smiled, her face alight with love, turned off the light, and shut the door. An angel nightlight was plugged in near the bed, and now its soft glow comforted him as he slipped into sleep.

After he knew not how long, he was warm, too warm, maybe sick, he didn’t know, and he refused to open his eyes, hoping the heat was just a dream. Something burned in his throat, and he coughed. He felt a jolt, which finally made him open his eyes.

Red everywhere. Red and orange and even a tiny bit of blue.

Someone tied a curtain of red around his head, over his eyes, and it felt like hair was tickling his face.

The burn was creeping closer, and he wanted to scream, but he couldn’t—

The blindfold fell away from one eye, and he saw them, Mom and Dad, flames wrapped around them—

“Help us!” they cried. “Help us!”

He tried to get up, but his shoulders were pinned to the bed.

 _I can’t_ , he wanted to say. _I’m sorry_.

Someone pulled the blindfold back over his eye, and he fell into the nothingness of sleep once more.

Then the next thing he knew, a firefighter was cradling him, yelling about how he’d “found the boy.”

“Shit, he’s awake,” another firefighter muttered as he approached.

“So he is,” the first firefighter marveled. “Hey, little guy.” Castiel squirmed in the man’s grasp, but the motion made him dizzy. “Take it easy.”

“Where’s my mom and dad?” he asked. He didn’t like being alone with these strange men. He wanted his parents.

“Um. They’re . . . they’re not here right now, son.” A tear escaped the man’s eye.

“Why? Where are they?”

“Not here,” he reiterated.

Then suddenly Castiel just _knew_. “I’m never going to see them again,” he whispered.

“That’s not true.—”

“Don’t lie to him, Paul,” the second firefighter said. He lowered his voice. “Just be glad you didn’t have to tell him.” Castiel was sure he wasn’t meant to have overheard that.

His lower lip trembled, and he attempted to hold in the tears, but he _couldn’t_ —

And they came out in a flood.

The worst part was, they’d begged him to save him, but he’d gone back to sleep.—

It was all his fault.

He sobbed and sobbed.

“Cas!” a rough male voice shouted. It didn’t belong to one of the two firemen. He frantically searched for the source of the voice, but he couldn’t find it. “Cas!” it yelled again.

Then he was back in his bedroom, and _no_ , he couldn’t go through what’d just happened again.—

“Cas, snap out of it!”

“What?” he breathed, his eyes fluttering open.

Oh, right. He wasn’t seven years old anymore. He was an adult in his own bedroom, and this man sitting at the foot of his bed was some ghost hunter named Dean Winchester.

He laughed deliriously.

“Cas,” Dean said again, and Castiel could practically hear the frown in his voice.

Castiel bit his lip to force himself to stop laughing. “I’m sorry. I’m all right.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. It was just a nightmare.”

“Some nightmare. You were screaming your head off. Wanna talk about it?” he offered softly. “You don’t have to if you don’t wanna.” In the dark, with the moonlight slithering in through the cracks in the blinds, Dean’s green eyes were luminous, almost reminding him of a cat’s.

And right then, suddenly he understood—he could trust Dean.

“It was the fire,” he began, his voice trembling. “And I . . . I think it was a memory.” It was something he hadn’t recalled until now, the blindfold, seeing his parents and the flames between going to sleep and waking up in the morning. Maybe it had been merely a dream, but the longer he thought about it, the more certain he was that the scene had burst forth from his subconscious.

“The one that killed your parents.” Dean sounded so gentle that it almost made Castiel weep.

“Yes.”

“Y’know,” Dean said, “my mom died in a fire.”

“She did?” Castiel gasped. The casual tone with which Dean had uttered the fact didn’t match the emotion he imagined went along with the recollection.

“Yeah. Sammy was just a baby; he doesn’t remember. I was four . . . and I, I remember everything.” The mechanical click of a swallow. Castiel leaned forward, and Dean mirrored the movement. “It started in Sammy’s nursery . . . I heard Dad yelling for me, so I got up, and he gave Sam to me. He said to take my brother out of there. I could feel the heat coming from the room, and I peeked inside . . . there was Mom, on the ceiling . . . and fire.” His voice caught in his throat at the word “fire,” and Castiel heard a quiet sob. “I wanted to help save her, but Dad shoved me away, and I knew . . . I, I had to keep Sam safe.

“We lost everything that night.”

In the pale moonlight, Castiel could dimly discern the tracks of tears on Dean's cheeks. He knew his own countenance reflected them. “Dean,” he commiserated, grasping Dean’s wrist, scarcely aware of the action as it brought him closer to Dean.

“Cas,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “Personal space.”

Of course. It was not socially acceptable to touch most people like that. He withdrew his hand and leaned back as he said, “My apologies.”

“It was a demon that killed her,” Dean continued. He barked a mirthless laugh. “That’s how the supernatural became the Winchester Family Business.”

Castiel believed the explanation without question. He didn’t know why, when even this morning he’d discounted the supernatural, but now he was aware of its existence, well . . . anything seemed possible. “Did you ever find it? The demon?” he whispered.

Dean swiped a hand over his eyes. “Yeah. That son of a bitch paid good, let me tell ya.”

“I don’t remember it at all. The fire. I always thought I should. What kind of person sleeps through a fire? What if . . . what if I could have stopped it somehow?”

“It’s not your fault, Cas.”

“But it is. The dream . . . it showed me.” Why did he sound like a child?

“What do you mean?”

“I—I woke up. During the fire.” He gulped. “They were asking me to save them, but I went back to sleep.”

“Nah. It was just a dream.”

“But what if it wasn’t?”

“Still not your fault. I mean . . . you were in the fire, right? But you weren’t hurt.”

“Yes.”

“So. That shit ain’t natural. Whatever was goin’ on . . . it was Anna Milton’s doing.”

“I suppose. But I still cannot help feeling responsible.”

“I hear ya.” Yes. The way Dean had spoken about his own fire . . . he obviously felt guilty about it. But that fire had not been Dean’s fault, nor had the fire that killed his parents been his. He had to remember that.

“Dammit, I broke the salt line,” Dean murmured. He left the room and returned a moment later to refresh the ring of salt. “Okay. That’ll do it. G’night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Jessica gazed at a mortified Sam after Castiel and Dean exited the motel room. “Sorry about him,” Sam stammered, his eyes directed at the floor. “Um, he means well. . .”

“He thinks we’re going to have sex,” Jessica stated matter-of-factly, and Sam coughed as if someone had punched him in the gut. She smirked. “Sorry to disappoint, but I ain’t that easy, babe.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Sam replied, the most adorable flush on his cheeks, and bless his heart, he thought she’d been dead serious with her chiding attitude.

“A kiss would be nice, though,” she declared. His eyes jerked up toward hers, and she closed the distance between them, enveloping his waist with her arms. He echoed the motion by placing his hands on her shoulders, and they leaned closer, their lips first brushing then the kiss growing deeper, rougher, more intimate. When they pulled apart, they rested their foreheads against each other, panting heavily. “Mmm. That was nice,” Jessica decided.

“Yeah. It was,” Sam affirmed.

She released her grip on him and stepped back. “We’re still not having sex, though.” Sam snorted. “Not yet.” She grinned mischievously, and his eyes widened. Goodness, but he was fun to tease.

“So what? You wanna go home now?” Sam asked.

“Nah. What do you wanna do? And don’t say, ‘have sex’ or any variant thereof.”

“Research?” She furrowed her brow. He gestured toward the chains lying on Dean’s bed. “I’m still curious about those. It’s driving me nuts.”

She laughed. “You’re serious?”

“Very.”

With the word “research,” his face had lit up like a child’s. What a dork. A cute dork.

“We could go to the library,” she mentioned. “But it’s closed . . . ”

“Good thing I know a librarian.”

“Sam Winchester, are you asking me to abuse my executive privileges?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Good thing you’re so handsome. Otherwise, I might have to yell at ya for being so presumptuous.” He blushed. She gathered her purse and coat from the closet. “We’re gonna hafta walk.”

“Fine by me.” Sam drew on his own jacket, and they closed the motel room door behind them. “Jeez, it’s cold,” Sam observed.

She reached up and threw an arm around his shoulders, bringing him flush against her side. “That’s nothing a little body heat can’t fix.”

“Mmm. That’s better.”

“Agreed.”

She enjoyed the feel of him against her as they trudged to the library. When they arrived at the building, she withdrew from him so she could unlock the door, and she relished the puffs of his warm breath against the back of her neck as she completed the task. “I really shouldn’t be doing this,” she pointed out.

He gripped her shoulder with a soothing hand and whispered into her ear, “Thank you. It’s very much appreciated.”

She could feel a blush suffusing her own cheeks at the breathy sound of his voice. Finally, she succeeded in opening the door, and she turned on the main light. “Hey, you got any salt?” Sam inquired.

“Maybe in the kitchenette? I don’t know. Why?” she answered.

“Where’s the kitchenette?”

“Follow me.” She led him to the relevant room and yanked open the small cabinet, scanning its contents. Not much other than coffee creamer, sugar, pepper, a bag of chips, a couple of packages of Ramen noodles and there, in the back, a shaker of salt. She grabbed it and handed it to Sam. “Why do you want the salt?”

“We’ve gotta put salt lines by the windows and doors. It keeps ghosts out, like Anna Milton.”

He made it sound as if he’d just said the most obvious thing in the world. “Oh. Naturally.” So the Ghostfacers did know a couple of things even if they were “amateurs.” She watched Sam as he poured salt in all the necessary locations. “This is good for now, but what about the morning?” she asked. “I mean, we can’t just have salt lines all over the library. The patrons will wonder what the hell is going on, and I can’t exactly tell them, not without sounding like a lunatic.”

“I dunno. Make something up,” Sam muttered.

“Like what?”

“Christmas decoration?”

She snorted. “Some Christmas decoration.”

Sam placed the saltshaker on the front desk when he was finished. “Done. Can you log me into a computer?”

“Of course.” She set him up on a computer then logged on to one beside him. ‘What’re we lookin’ up?”

“The symbols on the chains.” She stared at him blankly. “Oh. Right. I forgot that you didn’t get a good look at them.” He produced a sheet of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it on the desk between them. He’d sketched four similar symbols onto the paper: from the ankle chains, a pentagram with blades of grass in the center; from the wrist chains, a flame surrounding a pentagram; from the neck chain, a pentagram partially submerged in water; and from the chastity belt, a pentagram floating on a cloud.

“Those are the four classical elements, aren’t they?” Jessica theorized.

“Huh?”

“That’s what the illustrations are. Not the pentagrams, but everything else. Earth, fire, water, and air.”

Sam studied the pictures. “Wow. I think you’re right.”

“And the pentagram would be satanic,” Jessica concluded.

“Actually, no. That’s a misconception. Dean and I use ’em all the time to make devil’s traps.”

“Devil’s traps.”

“Yeah. They’re for trapping demons.”

 _Just what it sounds like_. Things just kept getting stranger and stranger. “So, what? You think Uriel Novak or whoever these belonged to was a ghost hunter?”

“Dunno. Let’s see if we can dig up anything about these symbols.”

After much exhaustive googling, Jessica finally stumbled on a website depicting the four symbols. It didn’t seem like the most reliable source, but it was the only one she’d found so far. She assumed Sam hadn’t discovered anything; he probably would’ve said something if he had.

According to this site, the symbols represented the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton, a secret society of which little was known. The members treated _The Lesser Key of Solomon_ as a sacred text and devoted themselves to annihilating demons.

“Sam?” Jessica prompted.

“Hmm?”

“Have you ever heard of something called the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton?”

“No. Did you find something?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.

“Maybe. Come look at this.”

“Binding a demon with the four Sigils of Lemegeton will immobilize a demon and is the first step to curing it,” Sam read aloud. “Hmm. Curing a demon. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Would that be like an exorcism?”

“No. Exorcism rids the body of a demon. This is talking about curing the demon _itself_.”

“What do you make of this information? You think Uriel Novak was part of this group?”

“Maybe. But it gives us more questions than answers. What would the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton have to do with Anna Milton? Was she a demon Novak was trying to cure? Did he accidentally kill her during the process? Did she then turn into a ghost? And why the pattern? Why come back every twenty years if not because of her age?”

“Plus, we still don’t know how to stop her.” _And save Castiel_.

“Exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Lemegeton_ is another name for [_The Lesser Key of Solomon_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lesser_Key_of_Solomon). As far as I can tell in my cursory research, there's nothing in the text about curing demons, and the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton is an invention of my own. _The Lesser Key of Solomon_ itself won't really play a role in the story.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I appreciate all the kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, and feedback so far. It's all very welcome! :) I thought that maybe, say, five people at the most would even want to read this, so I'm honored. Thus, I've updated more frequently than I might have otherwise. I've been struggling with my NaNo novel practically all month, so my chances of succeeding with NaNoWriMo this year are slim, but it's been nice to write something (this) that flows more smoothly.


	10. Mind Meld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's discussion of rape during the last section of this chapter. Consequently, I've changed the rating back to mature. 
> 
> This is the longest chapter so far . . . longer than the previous one. Most likely I won't be updating for at least a week, what with a holiday coming up. I estimate there are probably three more chapters left in the story, though.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all of you readers out there.

In the morning, after indulging in a bowl of cereal with Castiel, Dean drove him to the library. Neither of them mentioned the events of last night, but he sensed they were on Cas’s mind just as much as they were on his. Dean had shared more of himself with Cas than he had with anyone before, except for Sam, and he barely knew the guy. What had possessed him? It was the terror he’d seen in Castiel’s entire being, he reflected. He wanted the librarian to know he understood, for Cas to realize he wasn’t alone.

But that conversation had changed the air between them, which now seemed more relaxed. It was as if something had clicked into place, something Dean couldn’t define or perhaps even comprehend.

When Dean pulled into the library’s parking lot, he glanced at Castiel and noticed the worry lines etched into his forehead. “What is it?” he asked.

Castiel eyed the library. “The lights are on.”

“And they shouldn’t be?”

“No, I am the one who opens up the library.”

“Hmm.”

Castiel exited the Impala, Dean following close behind. After Castiel unlocked the door, they tiptoed inside. Puzzled, Dean noticed the salt line in front of the door as he entered the library. A second later, Cas suddenly stopped, and Dean almost bumped into him.

Castiel sighed with relief. “Thank goodness,” he said. Dean couldn’t see around Cas, so he stepped to the side then finally spotted what Castiel was referring to.

Sam and Jessica were snoozing in desk chairs near two computers. _I guess they chose the library over sexy times_ , Dean thought to himself, amused.

“Should we wake them?” Castiel inquired.

“No. Wait. I wanna take a picture first.” Dean whipped out his cell phone and snapped a few photos of his brother. A line of drool even rolled out of the side of Sam’s mouth. Priceless.

Sam’s eyes flew open as Dean was in the middle of capturing the last image. “What the hell, Dean!” he whined as he rubbed his neck.

“What?” Jessica mumbled. She pried her eyes open. “Shit!” she exclaimed. “Is it really morning already?”

“Yep,” Dean said. “What were you guys doing here all night, anyway?” Maybe there had been sexy times, Dean speculated. Hot, sexy librarian times. Sam would be just the type to have a library fetish.

“Research,” Sam replied.

Dean snorted. “Just when I thought you couldn’t get any nerdier.” Sam glared at him. “So, find anything useful?”

“Actually, yeah. Come take a look at this.” Sam scooted his chair toward Jessica’s computer, and Dean headed over to take a look, hearing the rustle of Castiel’s trench coat as he followed behind.

“The Divine Defenders of Lemegeton,” Dean uttered. “What the hell is that?”

“Keep reading.”

“The Sigils of Lemegeton. Those are the symbols on the chains,” Castiel realized.

Indeed they were. “So, what’s this mean?”

“I dunno,” Sam acknowledged. “But Uriel Novak must’ve been involved with them.”

“You think it has somethin’ to do with Anna Milton’s death?”

“Maybe.”

“So, what? Anna Milton was a demon? We’re dealing with the ghost of a demon?” Talk about freaky-ass ideas.

“Is that even possible?”

“Dunno.”

Jessica stretched and stood up. “I’m gonna go home and change. I’ll be back.”

Sam kissed her on the cheek. “See ya later, babe,” he mumbled.

After Jessica left, Castiel retreated behind the front desk and appeared to be sorting out various items. Meanwhile, Sam and Dean explored the website’s information about the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton. Dean thought the website seemed a little dubious; after all, whoever’d written this shit didn’t even know how to spell. It made reading the content hella difficult. “Maybe the author made this crap up,” Dean tossed out.

“Perhaps. But the symbols . . . I’m inclined to believe what the site says about them. I mean, they don’t show up anywhere else we looked.”

“Hmm.”

The front door tinkled, and Sam and Dean turned to see who’d just entered. It was only Jessica, but still, they decided to hurry up and print what they needed from the website and log off the computer. They didn’t need townspeople drawing unfavorable conclusions about the Winchesters because they’d seen some weird-ass shit on the computer.

“Here, Sam,” Jessica announced as she walked toward him. “I brought you a granola bar.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She unwrapped her own granola bar and bit into it. Jeez, this girl was practically Sam’s soul mate, what with her taste in food.

Just as soon as Sam exited the browser window, the bell jingled again. A bona fide patron, none other than Pastor Jim Murphy. Sam snatched up the paper from the printer and tucked it under his arm. Jessica took her position behind the front desk, and Sam and Dean drifted in that direction, Sam remaining close to Jessica while Dean settled near Cas.

“What’s that in front of the door? Sugar? Salt?” Murphy griped as he kicked it to the side. They’d have to fix that in a minute. Luckily, Dean had stowed Cas’s salt in the Impala.

The reverend stared at Jessica and Castiel as if expecting an answer. “Christmas decoration?” Jessica ventured.

“Like I believe _that_ ,” Murphy countered. “I don’t know what you kids are up to, but trust me when I say it would probably be in your best interest to stop.” One glance at the others’ faces told Dean they were just as confused as he was.

Murphy wandered into the stacks, and Sam covered Jessica’s hand with his own. She smiled up at him.

A few minutes later, Murphy strode toward Castiel, placed three books onto the front desk, and handed Castiel his library card. Castiel scanned the card then the books and slid them back toward Murphy with his library card on top.

Murphy’s eyes darted between Castiel and Jessica. “Why are you two associating with the Winchesters, anyway? Do you know what they do?”

“Yes,” Jessica replied.

“Then you know they’re troublemakers.”

“I don’t think that’s fair—”

“I wouldn’t expect anything more from you, _Jessica_ ,” he seethed, “when you’re perverse enough to dump Brady, of all people.” He turned to the other librarian. “But _you_ , Castiel. From you, I do expect more.”

“Brady is an asshole,” Castiel spat, and the pastor looked shocked. “And Dean and Sam . . . well, they are my friends.” Now it was Dean’s turn to be surprised. Friends? And the way Castiel had said his name, _Dean_ , his gruff voice almost caressing the syllable . . . it made him feel a strange warmth.

“Like I said,” Murphy said through clenched teeth, “I expected more from you, Castiel. I’m sorry to be disappointed.” With that, he stalked out of the library.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Dean wondered.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Castiel responded. His blue eyes were uncertain. “I hope you don’t mind what I said?”

“Mind what?”

“About us being . . . friends.”

“’Course not. We are friends, aren’t we?” Castiel seemed to freakin’ _glow_ after Dean pronounced that remark. Cas glanced at Sam, who nodded in agreement.

“Who the hell is Brady, anyway?” Dean asked.

“The mayor’s son.—” Castiel began.

“He and I dated for a month,” Jessica interjected. “But he’s a douchebag, so I dumped him.”

“He really is a douchebag,” Sam agreed. “When Jess and I were at the diner . . . he came over to taunt her.” Sam grabbed a saltshaker from the front desk, which Dean hadn’t noticed was sitting there until now, and fixed the salt line in front of the door. “Dammit, it’s empty,” he lamented when he was through.

“Don’t worry; I’ve got more in the car,” Dean assured him.

“Maybe you guys should go,” Castiel suggested. “If Pastor Murphy is hostile toward you, then others might be as well.”

“But we’ve gotta keep you safe,” Dean objected.

“You can’t be with me 24/7, Dean. We’ve got the salt. I think we will be all right.”

“We still need to check out Naomi Adler’s house and the graveyard,” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. But we’ll be back.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Castiel said.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ten minutes before Castiel’s shift was over, Dean and Sam returned to the library. Sam chatted with Jessica and Dean stood silently by the front desk while Castiel finished up his duties. The mail had just arrived and he tore open the envelope, knowing it contained news about a grant. He sighed when he read the letter.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asked.

Castiel passed the letter to him. “They rejected our grant application.”

“Bummer,” Dean muttered.  Castiel ventured to the back, stowed the letter away in a box holding the library’s official correspondence, and returned to the front desk. “You done?” Dean said.

“Yes.”

“Great. I’m takin’ ya home.”

“No.”

“No?” Dean looked a bit miffed.

“No. Bobby is picking me up. I am having dinner at his place.”

“Fuck that. I’m not leavin’ you alone with some damn trucker. What’s gonna happen if Anna Milton turns up?”

“I ain’t no trucker, boy,” a sharp voice pronounced, and Dean winced. Castiel bit back a laugh and smiled at Bobby, who’d just strolled through the door. “I thought I told ya to leave Cas alone about this nonsense,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbled. He actually seemed intimidated.

“C’mon, Cas,” Bobby urged, his eyes piercing Dean. “Let’s get away from this looney tune.”

“I’ll meet you at my house later,” Castiel told Dean, and Bobby’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“What the hell are ya doin’ with that idjit?” Bobby asked after he and Castiel had climbed into his truck.

Castiel couldn’t meet Bobby’s intense gaze. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, start ’splainin’,” Bobby commanded as he started the truck.

“Do you remember the seizure I had at the diner on Sunday?”

“How could I forget?”

“I saw Dr. Walker about it yesterday, and he said I was perfectly healthy.”

“Huh. You know, I’ve always thought that son of a bitch was a quack.—”

“He’s a good doctor,” Castiel objected. “And I believe he was right. There was nothing wrong with me, not physically.”

“Then what the hell was it?”

“When I was at Dr. Walker’s, I suddenly . . . ” Castiel began to shake, the memory still vivid in his mind. “I was choking, and I couldn’t stop. There was water bubbling up from my throat.—”

“Jesus!”

For once, Castiel didn’t chastise Bobby for taking the Lord’s name in vain. “Except there wasn’t.”

“Huh? Ya lost me there, son.”

Bobby pulled into his driveway, and Castiel followed him into his abode. “I made us some steak,” Bobby announced as they ambled into the kitchen. Castiel never ceased to be amazed by Bobby’s culinary prowess. It was a well-kept secret, and Bobby had threatened to flay Castiel if he told a living soul about it.

Castiel helped Bobby set the table, and neither of them spoke as they completed the task. Finally, they settled in for a supper of steak, mashed potatoes, and beer, and Bobby demanded, “Finish the story, Cas.”

Castiel chewed as he brainstormed how to frame the last twenty-four hours for Bobby. Eventually, he concluded that nothing would make sense to Bobby no matter how he explicated the chain of events; only two days ago, he wouldn’t have believed the words he was poised to utter.

“I felt like I was choking on water, but I wasn’t,” Castiel continued. “Dr. Walker theorized I could have a mental disorder, but I feel he is wrong. In essence, I believe the Winchesters.”

“What?!” Bobby spluttered.

“Anna Milton wants to kill me,” Castiel elaborated.

“Have you lost your damn mind?!” Bobby narrowed his eyes. “You sure you don’t have a mental disorder?”

“Yes.” Bobby gave him a disbelieving look. “I know how crazy it sounds. But that is not all. Jessica saw her at the library.”

“Anna Milton.”

“Yes. And I think we both know Jessica is not prone to wild flights of fancy.”

“No.’ Bobby scratched his chin. “So. You’re serious.”

“Very.” Castiel wondered if he should discuss the dream in which he had felt as if he were burning, but he decided against it. It would be even more difficult to articulate than everything else. He hadn’t even told the Winchesters, though Jessica knew. But it was probably the least important of the past days’ events. All that truly mattered was the fact that Anna Milton was aiming to kill him before the end of the week, and he had already mentioned enough to convey that idea. “The Winchesters have been attempting to find a way to stop her. Dean has been insistent on safeguarding me. It has been a little intrusive, to be honest.” Though now that he thought about last night, Castiel realized he had enjoyed the time spent with Dean. He had relished seeing Dean become absorbed by Ken Burns’s _Civil War_ despite his protestations that Castiel was viewing a “boring nerd show.” Then after the nightmare . . . Dean had shared a piece of himself with Castiel, and Castiel had felt something form, a connection he couldn’t quite describe.

Now the image of Dean evoked a sense of fondness.

“I still think it sounds insane,” Bobby opined.

“I know it does,” Castiel acknowledged.

“But I care too much about ya to risk it. If you think she’s comin’ after ya . . . we’ll need to take all precautions.” Castiel nodded. “Is that what the salt was for?”

“The salt?”

“Yeah. I saw somebody’d put salt by the library door. It keeps ghosts out, right?”

Castiel was astounded Bobby knew what salt did to ghosts. “How--?”

“I saw it on a damn show once,” Bobby said. “Should I throw a salt circle around the table?”

Castiel could not discern whether or not Bobby was joking. “I do not think that will be necessary.”

“Hell, son, better safe than sorry.” He jumped up from his chair, grabbed the saltshaker from the table, and drew a ring of salt around the table.

Castiel changed the subject when Bobby returned to his meal. “How was business at the shop today?”

Bobby snorted. “You think your life is in danger and you want to talk about my fuckin’ auto shop?”

“Yes. I am interested.”

“Fine,” Bobby grumbled before proceeding to narrate the mundane nature of his day. It comforted Castiel that normalcy still thrived somewhere in Picketsville.

xxxxxxxxxxx

Once Jessica locked up the library for the night, Sam and she stopped by the diner for supper. He and Jessica both ordered salads, and he wondered what Dean was doing at the motel by himself. They’d invited him to eat dinner with them, but he’d declined. No doubt he’d thought he would be intruding, but that wouldn’t have been the case. Probably not, anyway.

Perhaps there was a new episode of _Dr. Sexy_ tonight, or maybe Dean was watching his favorite episode of _Casa Erotica_. He’d once boasted to Sam he’d seen them all. Sam blushed, remembering his early morning with the program a few days ago . . . an enjoyable night, but now he had Jess and, well, thinking about porn with her right in front of him made him feel like a creep.

“So, what’re your plans for tonight?” Jessica asked after their salads had arrived.

“Digging up graves,” Sam replied.

“What?”

Earlier today, Sam and Dean had checked out Naomi Adler’s former property and the Picketsville Cemetery. The former had been a bust, but the latter held potential. The Sigils of Lemegeton had been carved onto the tombstones of both Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler. He told Dean they should probably dig up the graves to see if they held any relics related to the Divine Defenders of Lemegeton, and Dean had agreed. That is, he’d agreed Sam should do it while he spent another night at Castiel’s house. If Dean wasn’t straight, Sam would swear he had a crush on Castiel Novak.

“The graves of Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler,” Sam clarified.

“Why?” She looked a little freaked out, and Sam mentally kicked himself. Of course. This stuff was still pretty new to her.

“The Sigils of Lemegeton are on their tombstones,” Sam informed her. “Maybe there are clues inside their graves.”

“Or maybe Anna Milton is buried with them.”

There was an idea. “Yeah, I guess that’s a possibility.”

Her eyes lit up. “Then you could salt and burn the bones and poof, no more murderous Anna Milton.”

Sam almost spit out the water he’d been sipping. “What? How do you know about salting and burning the bones?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve seen the Ghostfacers, remember.”

“Yeah. I guess they do know about that.” He paused then pointed out, “We taught them that.”

“I know.” Sam gaped at her. “They said so in the video.”

Hey, they gave credit where it was due. That was admirable. “Do you have a photographic memory or something?”

She scrunched up her forehead. “No. Why?”

“You seem to remember awfully specific things about the Ghostfacers.”

“That’s because I showed them to Castiel the other day.”

“Oh.”

“Dean’s gonna help you, right?”

“No. He always finds some way to weasel out of the hard work,” Sam lamented.

“Oh. That’s assy of him.”

Sam mock-glared at her. “Hey, he’s my brother.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” she teased. “Anyhoo. You can’t do that alone. I’ll help you.”

The proposition shocked Sam. Did she really know what she’d be getting into? “You sure?”

She shrugged. “Why not? Cas is my best friend. I’ll do whatever it takes to save him.”

xxxxxxxxxxx

After they departed the diner, Jessica and Sam hung out at her house, cuddling and watching TV until midnight, when Sam estimated it was safe for them to head to the cemetery.

She pinched her forearm to remind herself this was real. Less than a week ago, she had laughed at the idea of the supernatural, of digging up graves to rid the world of ghosts, and here she was about to aid in digging up a friggin’ grave herself. Dean had taken the Winchesters’ vehicle, so they drove to the cemetery in Jessica’s old Ford Focus.

“You sure you wanna do this?” Sam repeated for the millionth time once they arrived at the iron gates of the cemetery.

“If you ask me that one more time, I swear I’m gonna punch you,” Jessica retorted.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

They clambered out of the car and circumnavigated the fence until they found a spot over which they could hop. Iron spikes lined the top of the fence, which rendered it a difficult obstacle to overcome, but there was a tall oak tree they could climb, and from one of its branches they could cross over the fence easily. Sam climbed the tree first, carrying two shovels with him. He tossed the shovels to the ground on the other side before leaping off the branch.

_Okay. Here goes nothing._

She hadn’t climbed a tree since she was twelve, but she recalled it had been a favorite activity of hers. She wasn’t sure if she could still do it, but it was probably like riding a bike, right? Once you did it, you never forgot the process.

She scrambled up the tree and onto the branch then jumped. She landed awkwardly, almost falling backward, and Sam caught her before she hit the ground.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she stood up straight.

“’Welcome,” he replied.

He led her to the graves of Novak and Adler. When they reached the plots, Jessica examined the tombstones. Sure enough, the Sigils of Lemegeton appeared on both markers. Sam passed her a shovel and began to dig, and she joined him.

After what felt like forever, they finally uncovered both caskets. She wiped the sweat off her brow and glanced at Sam. “What now?” she asked.

“We open the caskets,” Sam answered.

She stood by while he jimmied the lids and flung open first Novak’s casket then Adler’s.

They stared open-mouthed at the contents.

Both caskets were filled to the brim with red hair.

Red hair with the same luminescent glow as the strand Sam had found at Castiel’s childhood home.

“You think that’s Anna Milton’s hair?” Jessica ventured.

“I dunno. If so, it should’ve decayed by now,” Sam responded. “Besides, why would it shine?”

“Do demons have shiny hair?” Jessica already felt stupid for asking the question.

“No. I don’t know what has shiny hair.” He knelt by Novak’s casket. “Maybe we should see what’s underneath.”

Jessica helped Sam remove all the hair from Novak’s casket, and they discovered a skeleton below. Here she was looking at a real-life skeleton. Jessica shuddered inwardly. They gave the same treatment to Adler’s casket, with the same result.

“Maybe we should salt and burn these skeletons. Just in case,” Sam said.

“I think we should burn the hair, too,” Jessica proposed.

“What? Why?”

“Why not? Let’s see what happens.”

She and Sam refilled the caskets with the hair; then Sam poured salt into Novak’s casket, lit a match, and dropped it into the casket. The hair caught fire instantly, faint red sparks hissing. The strands exploded one by one, sounding like firecrackers.

“Huh,” Sam muttered. “That’s interesting.”

“What do you make of it?” Jessica inquired.

“Dunno, honestly. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jessica convinced Sam to let her salt and burn the contents of the other casket. Again, the hair produced red sparks and small explosions.

xxxxxxxxxxx

After dinner at Bobby’s, Castiel called Dean to notify him he would be home soon. Then Bobby dropped him off at the library, and Castiel was finally able to drive his car home. When he arrived, Dean was lounging on the front steps.

Inside, Dean reminded Castiel he’d promised to watch _Star Trek_ tonight. Castiel did not remember a _promise_ per se, but Dean was so excited by the prospect he couldn’t turn him down. While Dean showered, Castiel turned on the fireplace because it was below freezing outside and his heater did not work very well.

“What is this, a romantic date?” Dean scoffed when his eyes alit on the fireplace after he joined Castiel on the couch. Castiel blushed. _Oh_. He had not thought of the implications a roaring fireplace could have, but with Dean’s remark, he now felt mortified. “Relax, Cas; I’m just jokin’.”

“It is cold tonight,” Castiel pointed out, “and since my heater is not ideal, I thought I should use the fireplace.”

“’Course.”

Dean snatched the remote from the coffee table, flipped on the TV, and searched Castiel’s NetFlix account for _Star Trek_. “Bingo,” he murmured once he found the show.

“This is a show from the 1960s,” Castiel observed with skepticism.

“So?”

“It is old.”

“So what? It’s freakin’ classic, man.”

And Dean had called Castiel a nerd.

To his surprise, Castiel found himself enjoying the show. He lost count of how many episodes he and Dean viewed, and he eventually fell asleep.

 . . . He was lying on his back, supine, and he couldn’t move, nor could he see; it was dark, for there was a blindfold over his eyes. This blindfold was different than the one that had been tied around his eyes during the fire; it wasn’t as ticklish. Cold iron squeezed his wrists, his ankles, his neck, and . . . _no_ , how was it possible, on his sexual organ—

A chastity belt.

He was confined, paralyzed, and—

“Do not struggle, my sweet. It will be useless,” a harsh male voice growled.

“Wha--?” he tried to say, but his mouth was too dry to make a sound, and his throat ached.

A hand clapped itself over his mouth. “Shhh,” the owner of the hand urged, the voice different than the previous speaker’s.

Someone removed the chastity belt from his member and stroked it slowly. He groaned inwardly, whether from fear, pain, or desire, he didn’t know. “You’re gonna enjoy this,” the first voice sneered.

“Please,” he whimpered, and it wasn’t him talking, but someone manipulating his mouth.

“Now, is that any way to speak to your savior,” his interlocutor chided. “You’re a monster. This is the least you deserve.”

“No, please, I’m not—” Again, they weren’t his words.

Then something plunged _inside_ him, followed by a grunt that sounded as if it came from the first man.

He/whoever was controlling his body screamed.

“Do not make a sound,” the second man hissed as a hand jammed itself against his mouth.

There were two bodies pressing against him now, he was sure, even if he couldn’t see anything, and the weight flush against his skin was suffocating.

And he _couldn’t_

_No, no, please, no—_

_It_ hurt—

_Hurt hurt hurt hurt_

And he was so alone, no one would save him, God wouldn’t save him—

And he couldn’t tell the difference between his thoughts and _hers_ —

The blindfold fell off, and his eyes met the walls of his living room. No sound emanated from the TV. He huddled against the armrest of the couch, in a cold sweat, his limbs trembling.

Dean snored on the other side of the sofa. Should Castiel wake him?

No, Dean didn’t need to be disturbed.

But then Dean woke up on his own, his eyes rolling open. When they hit Castiel, he sprang upright and said, “Shit, Cas, what’s wrong?”

Only then did he realize he was sniffling. “They raped her, Dean,” he declared. That’s what the dream had been about.—Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler had _raped_ the poor woman. Demon? Monster? No, she wasn’t that. Her mind had melded with his . . . and no, he couldn’t ascertain what she was, but it wasn’t that.

Oh, God. He was the descendant of a rapist. A rapist and his victim.

“Huh?”

“Anna Milton was raped by Reverend Novak and his cousin.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The dream. I was her.”

“It was just a dream.”

“No. She was me. I was her. It was so real . . . I think she was trying to show me what happened to her.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can’t,” Castiel acknowledged. “I just—I _know_. It’s not rational . . . I might not believe me if I were someone else. But you do?” The last three words came out as a plea.

“’Course I do,” Dean averred. “C’mere.” Castiel obeyed, and Dean wrapped an arm around him and smoothed back his hair. “You’re shivering,” Dean noted, sounding worried.

“I . . . I felt what she felt.”

Dean tucked Castiel’s chin under his, which Castiel found comforting. “I don’t understand how she got into your dreams. We salted all the entrances.”

“Maybe salt doesn’t protect one’s mind,” Castiel hypothesized. _Maybe she isn’t a ghost_.

No. She was definitely a ghost. Wasn’t she?

“Maybe,” Dean echoed as he stroked Castiel's hair, the motion rhythmic. “Shh, Cas. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

Under Dean’s ministrations, Castiel’s body gradually stilled.


	11. Like Normal Young People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mention of rape in the first part of this chapter.

An hour before the library was set to open, all four of them met for a quick breakfast conference at the small table in the kitchenette. Sam and Jessica were both eating apples, which amused Dean to no end. He and Cas had split a package of Pop-Tarts between them. Low-fat strawberry, but it was better than a friggin’ apple.

They’d just finished relaying to each other what had occurred last night, and now they brainstormed their options. Dean had narrated Cas’s nightmare to Sam and Jessica since Cas had difficulty talking about it. Though he’d mentioned the rape of Anna Milton, he had left out the part where Cas had experienced the rape himself, for which Cas had shot him a grateful look. Even with the omission of that detail, Cas had trembled when Dean came to the most gruesome part of the story. Dean had wanted to comfort Cas as he’d done last night, but he knew such behavior would prompt raised eyebrows, so he refrained.

Along with that, there had been Sam and Jessica’s discovery last night. They’d unearthed Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler’s caskets, which had been stuffed with that glowing red hair.

Now that was just plain weird. Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

“I still don’t understand how Anna Milton got into Castiel’s dreams,” Sam commented. He glanced at Dean. “You’re sure you salted all the potential points of entry?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “’Course I am, Sammy. I’m not some damn amateur.”

“Maybe she’s not a ghost?” Jessica suggested. “The Sigils of Lemegeton are on those chains. So, they’re probably meant for demons. And if Novak and Adler used the chains on her . . . perhaps she’s a demon.”

“But demons don’t like salt, either,” Sam pointed out.

“Oh.”

Dean suddenly remembered something. _The fireplace_. Of course. A  terrible oversight. Shit. Fuck him and his damn carelessness. It’s how he’d gotten Dad killed. And now, he’d allowed Cas to be scarred for life . . . and much worse could’ve happened. Cas could’ve freakin’ _died_.

How could he be such a fuckin’ dumbass?

“Dean?” Sam prompted. “Are you all right?”

Only with Sam’s solicitation did Dean realize he’d begun grinding his teeth. “She could still be a ghost or a demon,” Dean admitted through clenched teeth.

“Huh?”

“She could’ve gotten in through the chimney.” That was why she’d been able to enter the house last night and not the night before. Then, Castiel had been safely ensconced inside a salt circle.

“So there is a place you forgot to salt.” Dean wanted to slap that smug look off Sam’s face, but he knew he deserved all the derision in the world.

Dean flushed and turned to Castiel. “I’m sorry, Cas.” _My fault. My fault. Always my fault. Why do I have to be such a fuck-up?_

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Cas said softly.

“I—” Dean bit his lip to prevent himself from bursting into sobs and hoped no one had noticed the tears that’d briefly threatened to spill from his eyes.

Cas, however, must have, for he reached under the table and squeezed Dean’s hand, the delicate pressure of his fingers igniting a shiver. Why, he didn’t know. He ensured his expression remained neutral, and he observed Castiel’s was as well. Castiel offered one of his fleeting flicks of a smile as he withdrew his hand.

“So we’re back to square one,” Sam sighed, running his hands through his hair in exasperation.

“Not necessarily,” Jessica argued. “We should consider other possibilities. Look for something that can affect people’s dreams. Manipulate them.”

“While having glowing red hair at the same time?” Dean added skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Hey, I know what enters people’s dreams,” Dean offered, attempting to lighten the mood. The others stared at him, rapt. “Succubi. Am I right?”

Jessica paled. “Those exist?”

“Yep.”

Sam glared at him, and Dean knew that bitch face. It said, _Dean, these are_ serious _matters. We need to be_ serious _. Shut up with your stupid ass jokes_.

But Castiel gazed at him with abject terror. _Oh, shit_. How could he have been so insensitive? _Succubi are all about the sex . . . kind of rape-y_. _Shit, shit, shit. I’m sorry, Cas_.

“Okay,” Dean said awkwardly. “That’s not what we’re dealing with, obviously. So, should we get crackin’ with the research?”

“You and Sam should,” Jessica put in. “Cas and I have work soon.”

Sam turned to Dean and pronounced, “I’ll search the Internet, and you can read Dad’s journal. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Dean mumbled.

“I’ll help you until my shift starts,” Jessica told Sam. She stood up and offered him a hand, which Sam clasped as they exited to the front of the library. Dean pulled Dad’s journal from his bag and made to get up, but Castiel’s voice stopped him mid-motion.

“I think you should stay back here,” Castiel opined as he got to his feet and leaned against the counter, the silver gleam of the sink peaking out from behind him.

“What? Why?” Dean replied.

“I think there are many people here who do not like you Winchesters.”

“So?”

“So, I would prefer not to make trouble.”

“How come Sam gets to work in the front?”

“Sam is more polite.” Was that a teasing smile? Nah. Dean was probably imagining things.

“True,” Dean acknowledged. He flipped open the journal, and a second later, Dean felt Castiel peering down over his shoulder.

“Your father . . . beautiful handwriting,” he murmured.

How was he supposed to respond to that? “I guess,” Dean muttered.

Castiel circled the table and strode toward the door that led to the main area of the library, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Dean.” At the sound of his name, Dean glanced up from the journal and met Cas’s gentle gaze. “I want to thank you. For everything.” Dean felt his face heating up.

“Sorry I did such a piss-poor job,” Dean apologized.

“I think you have done quite well. I am not dead, am I?”

“Don’t jinx yourself, Cas.”

“I would love to stay, but I must open the library.”

“’Course.” What? Why the hell would Cas want to stay back here with him? After he’d dropped the ball last night?

Dean shoved his disappointment in himself to the back of his mind for the time being as he scanned Dad’s journal. After a couple of hours, he’d found squat. There were the Sandmen, which entered people’s dreams; Dad had killed one when Dean was ten. Then the Mothman could control people’s minds, but Dad had eliminated it that one time they’d lived in West Virginia.

What? The Mothman? That had been real? He didn’t remember that. He’d been seven at the time, though, and Dad hadn’t shared the gory details about his hunts with his sons then. Yes, trained them and alluded to their future as hunters, but that was as far as he went until Dean’s ninth birthday, when Dad had begun initiating him deeper into the family business—

The door burst open and Sam walked in, a printout dangling from his fingers. “Find anything?” he asked Dean.

“Nothing useful,” Dean answered. “How ’bout you?”

Sam joined him at the table and placed the piece of paper at the center. “There’s this.”

“An encantado. Changes from a dolphin or snake into a person. Lives in Brazil.” He gave Sam an exasperated look. “Does it look like we’re in Brazil?”

“You know creatures can move around. It could be a rogue encantado.”

Dean scratched his head. “Y’know, I think we’re still dealing with a ghost or demon. Maybe a demon, what with the ability to get inside people’s minds. Anna Milton was a real person, after all. She’s either dead or possessed.”

“Hmm.”

Dean reached the end of the journal and read about the kitsune, which could enter people’s dreams. Oh, yeah. He remembered hunting that with Dad. It was a shapeshifter, taking the form of a fox. Huh. Dean hadn’t seen any foxes skulking about.

“Here. A kitsune,” Dean announced as he pointed at the page.

Sam read the entry then concluded, “That’s a possibility, too.”

“Okay, so what’ve we got? Ghost, demon. Kitsune, encantado.” Dean sighed. “I don’t think we’re gettin’ much of anywhere.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “Maybe we’ll just have to wait until we see her. Figure it out then.”

“Hopefully it won’t be too late to save Cas.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam, Dean, and Castiel waited in the library as Jessica switched off the computers and readied the library for closing. After she finished with those tasks, she joined the other three, who were loitering by the front desk.

“What’re you doing for dinner, Sam?” she inquired; Dean and Cas seemed to be engaged in their own side conversation.

Sam shrugged. “More take-out from the diner?”

“Or we could eat at the diner. You and me.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Or—oh, wait, I’ve got the best idea—we should go to the Roadhouse!”

“The Roadhouse.”

Dean and Cas had ceased their conversation, and now she addressed everyone. “Yeah. Hang out. All of us.”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean offered.

Castiel smiled. “I like that idea.”

“Great! Should we carpool or--?”

“How ’bout I take Cas and you take Sam?” Dean proposed. “That way, you won’t have to come back here to get your car.”

She nodded. “All right.”

The others followed her outside and waited while she locked up the library. Once they reached their cars, the pairs separated. After settling into her Focus, Jessica switched on the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot.

“I’m really excited about this,” Sam declared. He pasted on an adorable grin, one that reminded her of a little kid’s. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve done this. Just hanging out. Like normal young people.”

That was kind of sad. She couldn’t imagine how lonely his life must be, and Dean’s; having no one else but each other. Although at least they had each other. They clearly shared a special bond.

She was happy she could provide Sam with the opportunity to form a connection with someone, she reflected, as she navigated the streets.

When she arrived at the Roadhouse, she aimed for a spot next to Dean’s Impala. She and Sam stepped out of the car and joined Dean and Castiel at the entrance; then the group strolled inside together. They picked a booth on the far side of the building, and soon Jo appeared.

“What can I get ya?” Jo asked.

“I’ll have the usual,” Castiel responded. He probably meant whatever he ordered when he visited the Roadhouse with Bobby every Thursday night.

Dean requested a bacon cheeseburger and beer while she and Sam chose chicken tenders to go with their beer. Castiel ended by telling Jo to bring them a large basket of fries for everyone to share and introduced Jo to the Winchesters.

Jo flashed an impish grin. “I’ve already met Dean.” Castiel eyed Dean, who reddened for some reason. “But it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

“Glad to meet you, too,” Sam replied.

It wasn’t long before Jo returned with everyone’s items. They conversed about random things as they ate and drank, generally engaging in the behavior of, as Sam had put it, normal young people. After a while, Jo and Ash, the other bartender, pushed the tables in the center of the room toward the margins.

“What’s this?” Dean wondered.

“There’s dancing on Wednesday nights,” Jessica explained.

Dean groaned. “You didn’t tell me I had to dance.”

“You don’t _have_ to. But you can. If you want to.”

Ash cranked up the jukebox, and a smattering of couples ventured onto the dance floor. Jessica held out a hand to Sam and said, “Shall we dance?”

Sam laughed, a melodic sound, as he accepted her proffered hand. “Why not?” he replied.

Startled, she squealed when he yanked her toward the cleared floor space. He placed a hand on her waist, and she laid a hand on his shoulder.

In this moment, it was just him and her, alone.

Which was far from unpleasant.

xxxxxxxxxxx

“They seem to be having a good time,” Castiel noted as he and Dean sipped their drinks. Well, he sipped; Dean gulped.

Dean smiled fondly. “Yeah. I think Sammy really likes her.”

Sam and Jessica did make a cute couple. Jessica had endured a rash of terrible beaus of late, and he liked seeing her with someone who seemed to deserve her and who piqued her interest, too. She tried to hide how strongly she felt about Sam, but Castiel could read it all the same. It was in the eyes, that fleeting sparkle when they alit on Sam.

“I think Jess likes him, too,” Castiel replied.

Dean sighed. “It’s gonna be tough on ’em when we hafta leave town.”

Castiel whipped his head to the left, facing Dean. _When we hafta leave town_. Of course. The Winchesters traveled around hunting the supernatural. It was their line of work. But until now, he hadn’t considered the inevitability of them leaving. Of _Dean_ leaving. Yes, he had despised Dean initially, but Dean had grown on him during the past few days.

He realized he would miss Dean when he was gone.

Dean furrowed his forehead in confusion. “What’s wrong, Cas?”

“N . . . nothing is wrong. I was just thinking.” That was true enough.

But now, in lieu of paying attention to him, Dean was staring at something on the other side of the establishment. Castiel followed Dean’s line of sight, and his heart sank.

Lydia. And a couple of friends, including Meg Masters.

Lydia. The girl Dean had hooked up with his first night in Picketsville.

The girl Dean was now leering at.

“I’ll be back,” Dean mumbled as he stood up and stalked toward Lydia with laser-like intent.

Castiel gripped his glass to steady the tremor in his hands. At his very core, he felt a dread, a yawning abyss that stretched with every step Dean took toward Lydia.

He didn’t understand. Yes, he could comprehend his disappointment; after all, Dean had left him alone, without company.

But this deeper dismay puzzled him. It was almost as if he—

 _No._ That couldn’t be. Could it?

No. Of course not.

But still, it felt like—

Jealousy.

And why, of all things, would he be _jealous_?

Was he . . .

No. _No_. God, no.

How? Why?

The truth crashed into his consciousness.

He was _attracted_ to Dean.

Dean was only the second person he’d been attracted to in his entire life. Sure, he could objectively appreciate who was attract _ive_ , but as for being attract _ed_ . . . that never happened.

Until now.

Why Dean Winchester, of all people?

Dean Winchester, the average red-blooded straight male.

Castiel groaned. It was perverse. Why did he feel attracted to a man who would never return the sentiment?

Hopeless and idiotic, that.

His eyes drifted toward Dean, who was now—

Who now had his lips locked on Lydia’s.

For a second, Castiel imagined Dean’s lips underneath his. The feel of them. Soft—

An impossibility. He shouldn’t.

Tears blurred his vision.

Great. Might as well let Anna Milton kill him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Lydia had been an amazing fuck, and if Dean played his cards right, perhaps there could be a round two.

His cock twitched at the thought.

When he approached the bar, where she lingered, she offered him a coy smile. “Dean, is it?” she said.

“Yeah. Lydia, right?”

“Yes.” She paused then continued, “That was some night we had.” The tip of her tongue darted out of her mouth, wetting her lips. Gorgeous lips, fucking Christ. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah,” he breathed.

She planted her lips on his, the kiss deep, all teeth and tongue, and—

Not as amazing as he remembered. Had he really been that drunk?

No, she was a fantastic kisser. What was wrong with him?

It just didn’t taste right. He craved something different, though he didn’t know what.

A blonde and brunette flanked her, and when she pulled back, she gestured toward the blonde then the other one. “This is Lilith. Meg.”

“So you’re the legendary Dean Winchester,” Lilith smirked.

Lydia averted her eyes. Legendary? Had she really told her friends that? Awesome.

Meg raised her eyebrows, and Dean studied her, clad in all black, with tight leather pants. He wouldn’t mind hitting that. Well, maybe. There was a disconcerting quality about her he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Dean swept his thumb over his shoulder. “Y’all wanna join me? I’ve gotta get back to my friend.” He’d already left Castiel alone for too long; the guy was probably bored out of his mind.

Lydia giggled. “Seriously? Castiel Novak?”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s wrong with Castiel Novak?” he wondered.

“He’s such a weirdo. Everything about him . . . like, the way he talks. He always sounds so awkward.”

True, but Dean kind of liked that about him. It was endearing.

Meg laughed, and all three heads swiveled to her. “He’s always been such a fucking weirdo,” she drawled. “We went on a date once, in high school.” She made a disgusted face. “Which was almost social suicide. But he was cute, y’know?” Dean nodded. He understood why people would call the man handsome. “So, anyway. We had a picnic in the park. Lame. And all he talked about were his favorite books . . . And he kept telling me not to curse so much.” She rolled her eyes. “Then he tried to kiss me, and it was awful. No technique whatsoever, just a bunch of gross slobbering. Ugh.”

Okay, maybe Cas had nerdy tastes, but so what? The slobbering, though . . . it was amusing, but he didn’t appreciate Meg’s derision.

“Yeah, he’s a weirdo,” Dean conceded. “But he _is_ my friend. So, ya comin’ or what?”

The three women donned expressions of distaste. “No, thank you,” Lydia sniffed.

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

He meandered through the dancers back to Cas, who tapped his fingers against the table idly as he drained his glass. “Whatever happened to Lydia?” Castiel said, his sharp tone taking Dean aback.

“She kinda sucks,” Dean decided. He studied Cas and noticed he didn’t look too well. “You all right, buddy?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Castiel retorted coldly.

What the fuck? Why did he suddenly sound like Mr. Asshole Librarian again? “You don’t look too hot,” Dean elaborated.

Castiel stood up. “You’re right. I want to go home.”

Dean got to his feet as well. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I wish to be alone.”

Huh? “But, Cas, Anna—”

“I can take care of myself,” he snapped. “All I must do is maintain the salt circles. Am I correct?”

“Yeah, I think.” Was that what this was about? How much he’d screwed up? But Cas hadn’t seemed to blame him this morning. Perhaps time had allowed his resentment to fester.

Castiel took a step back. “All right then.”

“At least let me take you home.”

“No.” Jo passed by their table, and Castiel grabbed her shoulder and jerked her toward them. “Jo can take me home. Right, Jo?”

“Um, I have to—” Her uncertainty melted in the face of Castiel’s steely gaze. “Yeah, Cas. Sure.”

Castiel retreated another step. “Thank you, Dean, but your assistance is unnecessary.” With that, he dragged Jo out of the bar.

What the hell had gotten into him? Dean wracked his brains for an explanation, but he remained clueless.

Maybe the man was just a douchebag.

But Dean knew better. Castiel was actually . . . kind. Sweet. Caring.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t be a douchebag.

Shit. Now Dean would worry about him all night. What if Anna Milton came and Dean wasn’t there?

Could he drive over and secretly watch?

Nah. He’d be too damn obvious.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information about the encantado and kitsune came from a rudimentary Google search.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your thoughts are always welcome! :)


	12. Live By the Sword, Die By the Sword

Dean blustered into the library, Sam calmly following behind. He advanced toward Castiel, greeted him, but Castiel didn’t answer. Dean responded by pacing up and down the library. Jessica raised her eyebrows at Sam, who shrugged as he leaned against the front desk nearby.

All of a sudden, Dean ceased his motion, glaring at Cas with unblinking eyes.

That’s when the yelling began.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean bellowed. “I called you a million damn times, and you couldn’t answer even once?”

“I was asleep,” Castiel claimed.

“And you never woke up?”

“No.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Castiel stared at Dean with resentment. “I was worried about you all freakin’ night!” That explained Dean’s bloodshot eyes. He probably hadn’t slept much, if at all. Castiel’s eyes were also red, belying his earlier statement.

“That is not my affair.”

“You could’ve been dead for all I knew!”

Now Castiel raised his voice. “I am under no obligation to you.”

“Under no oblig—what the fuck does that even mean?”

Christ. The library was now officially open for business. Someone could waltz right in at any moment.

Castiel waved a hand down the length of his torso. “As you can see, Dean, I am perfectly all right.”

Dean jabbed a finger at him. “But I didn’t know that, now did I?” he seethed.

Castiel took a step back. “Drop it, Dean. This is immature,” he replied, the words dripping from between gritted teeth.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?”

“What is your problem?”

Dean raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I’m not the one with a problem. You are.”

“I know not of what you speak. This problem is a figment of your imagination,” Castiel pronounced acidly.

“You’re a freakin’ bastard, you know that?” With that, Dean turned on his heel, fuming as he stalked out of the library and slammed the door behind him.

“Dammit, he messed up the salt line,” Sam muttered before refreshing the layer in front of the door. When he was finished, he approached Jessica and whispered, “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”

“Sure.” She grabbed his hand and led him into the kitchenette. “What’s up?”

“I think Castiel . . . well, he seems upset about something, don’t you think?” Jessica nodded. He’d been doing his best to ignore Dean, and she didn’t understand his motivation. They had been becoming fast friends, so what was that all about? “I don’t know why he’s lashing out at Dean,” Sam continued, “but it’s hurting him. I can tell.” He paused. “So. Could you talk to Cas? See why he’s mad at Dean? . . . I mean, I get it. Sometimes Dean can be a pain in the ass. But we need to fix whatever’s going on between them before . . . y’know?”

She did know. Sam thought Dean and Cas should resolve their personal conflict before Anna Milton appeared again. Because, despite the salt lines, they both instinctively knew it was going to happen. If not here or at Castiel’s house, then somewhere else in Picketsville. They couldn’t draw a salt circle around the whole damn town.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thanks.”

“’Welcome.”

He pecked her on the lips, and she grinned. “I’m gonna see where my brother got off to.”

“All right. Bye, Sam.”

“Bye.”

When they returned to the front of the library, Sam passed by Ash on his way in. The mullet-clad bartender took one look at the salt line and asked. “What’s up with this?”

“It is a Christmas decoration,” Castiel answered. “Or rather, a wintertime decoration. It simulates the effect of snow.” The explanation was ingenious; Castiel had come up with it himself.

“Probably the only snow we’ll see around here,” Ash chuckled.

He wandered into the stacks then piled several books about chemistry and physics onto the front desk. Ash was much more intelligent than he looked.

“Have a wonderful day, Ash,” Castiel uttered after scanning the books for Ash.

“You, too, Cas. Jess,” Ash called on his way out.

When she was sure no one else was bound to enter, Jessica eyed Castiel and said, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Go right ahead,” Castiel replied with a smile.

“Did . . . ” She flushed, uncertain how to bring up the topic. “Did something happen between you and Dean?”

His expression grew guarded. “Why do you ask?”

“You guys had quite the shouting match earlier, y’know.”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s not my fault the man is so infuriating.” Jessica gazed at him, waiting for him to elaborate. After a minute, he sighed. “He is a vile human being.” Jessica’s eyes widened at the declaration. Castiel had seemed to enjoy Dean’s company, so Castiel was obviously misrepresenting his opinion. Why? “He’s insulting. He’s rude. He . . . he is selfish. No doubt a womanizer—”

So _that_ was it. At the word “womanizer,” Castiel’s voice had started to tremble. The slightest hint of despair, but it was enough. Castiel had never been one to strongly advertise his emotions; they’d always lingered deep beneath the surface, and it took a trained eye to read what he felt. “You like him,” Jessica realized.

“What? Of course I like him. He is my friend.”

“But you just said—” Forget it. Whatever. She’d known he was lying when he deemed Dean vile. “You know what I mean,” Jessica continued. “You _like_ him. You have a crush on him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel scoffed.

“It’s not ridiculous, and you know it.” Jessica marveled at this latest development. In all her years of knowing him, this was only the second time he’d been interested in someone.

“Why on earth would I have a crush on Dean Winchester?”

“Who can explain the laws of attraction?” Her smile broadened as she analyzed Dean’s behavior in another light. He must like Castiel, too. She’d noticed the way his eyes skimmed appreciatively over Castiel when he thought no one was viewing him. It was subtle enough in that it hadn’t aroused her suspicions before, but now with the added context of what she’d deduced . . .

“I think he likes you, too,” she told Castiel.

“Do not give me false hope, Jessica. It is cruel.”

“Ah, so you do like him!”

“I could never hide anything from you.” He covered his face with his hands, blue eyes peeking out between his fingers. “What am I going to do?”

“Tell him how you feel?”

Castiel snorted. “He would be disgusted.”

“No, like I said—”

“Please stop,” Castiel murmured. “And please do not tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She would keep her word, but there had to be a way to make those two men discover their feelings were mutual.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam found Dean back in their motel room, tuned in to a marathon of _Dr. Sexy_ reruns. He didn’t enjoy _Dr. Sexy_ , but he could think of nothing to do other than watch it. They’d conducted enough research, and today there had been no news about Anna Milton’s activities.

Even so, one could always do more research, Sam supposed.

Dean had already combed through Dad’s journal, but Sam was bored, so he picked up the book and sat down at the desk. As he was perusing the contents, he stumbled upon a fact he thought could be relevant, one Dean had not mentioned yesterday.

“Hey, Dean, take a look—”

“Shh, Sammy, I’m trying to watch the damn show,” Dean griped.

Sam rolled his eyes; Dean had viewed this episode so often that even Sam recognized it. “Dean, you’ve seen—”

“Shut up, Sam!” he snapped. “I can’t hear the friggin’ show!”

Fine. If Dean wanted to act like that, so be it. Clearly, his brother was still riled up about Cas, and he’d reverted to brainless TV-watching mode.

Luckily, he was due to meet Jessica at the diner for lunch, which would grant him a reprieve from his cranky brother. If Dean didn’t want to talk about the case, he would discuss it with Jess. Maybe he’d also find out what had transpired between his brother and Castiel.

He decided to head to the diner now. He grabbed the journal and his laptop on his way out while offering Dean a cursory good-bye, to which Dean mumbled something unintelligible in reply.

He’d just finished his second cup of coffee when Jessica dropped into the booth across from him. He was so lost in his thoughts, furiously typing on his laptop, that he didn’t notice her at first. She nudged his foot under the table and said, “Hey, you.”

He glanced up, startled. “Hey.”

“What’s that you’re doing?”

“I’ve got a theory I’m trying to flesh out.”

“What--?” she began, but then a waitress appeared and asked if they knew what they wanted to get.

After they placed their orders, Sam preempted Jess by asking, “Did you find out what was going on with Castiel?”

“No. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh. Well, as I said, I have a new theory about Anna Milton. Wanna hear it?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. Well. I saw this in Dad’s journal.” He flipped the book upside down and passed it to Jess, tapping on the relevant page. “Something he hunted about twelve years ago.”

“A dybbuk?”

“Yeah. It’s from Jewish folklore, a malevolent spirit that can possess people.”

Jessica frowned. “But Castiel has not been possessed.”

“No. But what’s interesting is the spirit is actually the soul of someone who has already died. Like many normal ghosts, they stay here on earth because they believe they have unfinished business or feel as if they have been wronged.”

“Like Anna. Perhaps.”

“Right. So, we already know at least one awful thing happened to her. The rape.” Jessica shuddered. “Maybe she was murdered, too. In fact, it’s quite likely. And who does she target? The descendants of those who wronged her, Uriel Novak and Zachariah Adler.”

“But where do the Devereauxes come in?”

“I think Frank Devereaux was probably involved, too. He was the sheriff when all three of them were alive, right?” Jessica nodded. “Right. Well. Maybe he knew about what happened to Anna. The rape or the murder, maybe even both. So in a sense, he wronged her as well. He never sought justice for what happened to her, so she’s decided to mete out justice herself.”

“By doling it out to those who are descended from the men who wronged her.” Sam nodded. “But then why didn’t she kill _all_ of the descendants? How does she choose who to target? For example, why Castiel? He’s a good man. Why go after him?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Sam admitted. “Some people also say that dybbuks are here because they need help. And if you think about it, who’s she killed? Uriel and Zachariah. Frank Devereaux. The reasoning there is obvious. Esper Novak and Ezekiel Adler. Perhaps she thought her own son would be willing to help her, but he wasn’t. Rachel Novak. Perhaps a Novak wife could lend a sympathetic ear. Everyone in the Yates Mill Fire. Maybe she’d been hoping at least one person in the group would listen. Naomi Adler, an old maid generally ignored by the town. Anna may have seen her as a misfit like herself. Then the last three, I’m not sure. Ephraim Novak, James and Amelia Novak. Castiel. Hmm.”

“I don’t know about Ephraim, but Castiel’s parents had a reputation as good people. They were devout. Castiel always talks about them with reverence.”

“Okay, so maybe she’s hoping one of these so-called good individuals might listen to her.”

“But that doesn’t seem like the way she’s going about things,” Jessica pointed out. “Why would you attack someone you want to convince to help you?”

“Yeah, it’s odd,” Sam conceded. “But what about Castiel’s dream the other night? That could’ve been an attempt to communicate.”

Jessica sighed. “I don’t know, Sam.” They picked at their food wordlessly for a few minutes until Jess exclaimed, “Wait! I just thought of something. A few days ago, Castiel showed me this journal he’d found. It was filled with Bible verses. I think it belonged to one of his ancestors. My wager is on Uriel Novak, since he was the preacher and all. I don’t remember what all the verses were about, but the first two . . . they said something about the descendants paying for what their predecessors have done. Could that be her motivation?”

“Give Uriel Novak the punishment he professed to believe in? Live by the sword, die by the sword?” Jessica nodded, and Sam scratched his chin. “Hmm. Maybe. But that still doesn’t explain why she’d go after some of the good ones.”

“Because they’re believers.” Sam stared at her in confusion. “I mean, they’re faithful. Castiel is devoted to the church, as were his parents. Although . . . hmm. He doesn’t seem to like the idea of a vengeful God. Which is where that idea comes from, essentially.”

“Or maybe she thinks there’s no such thing as a good Novak. Or Adler or Devereaux. So she goes after the good ones because . . . she thinks they’re hypocrites, that they’re hiding how rotten they are.”

“That . . . makes sense, I suppose.”

Sam exhaled in exasperation. “But we’ll never really know unless we can ask her.”

“Kinda hard to do if she’s so intent on killing, don’t ya think?”

Sam clutched at his hair. “Dammit. I feel so useless right now.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and Sam returned to the library at closing time. Dean was determined to look after Cas tonight, to go home with him no matter what. Even if he had to drag him into the Impala kicking and screaming or knock the guy out. No way was he going to spend another night stewing in his own juices, perpetually afraid that Anna Milton had murdered Castiel.

Maybe he should apologize to Cas. He’d been kind of a dick to him this morning.

Nah. The bastard had deserved it. He’d ignored Dean when he’d been trying to make nice, the asshat.

This time, Castiel didn’t even glance over when Dean and Sam entered the building. Instead, he threw on that damn trench coat and pointedly gazed somewhere in the opposite direction. If someone was going to break the ice, it had to be Dean.

“Ready for me to take you home, buddy?” Dean asked after clearing his throat.

Castiel turned to him, his expression ominous. “You are not taking me home,” he growled in that distinctively deep voice of his.

“’Course I am.”

They stared at each other in silence. Dean observed, not for the first time, how blue Castiel’s eyes were. Frosty yet warm. A storm raged inside them, anger cloaking something else . . . uncertainty, maybe? Fear?

Fuck. When had he become so focused on Castiel’s eyes? When had he learned to read all that detail in them?

“Look, Dean—”

But a wind tossed open the front door, interrupting him. Dean watched in horror as the salt line was completely obliterated.

Something was coming.

Sam and Jessica stood nearby, paralyzed, their faces stunned.

The door slammed closed, and a click indicated the door had been locked.

A woman materialized in the center of the loose circle the four of them had formed.

Luminescent, translucent. Red hair flowing down to her waist and fierce green eyes. A dark brown dress.

Anna Milton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with my other descriptions of various supernatural phenomena, I got the information about the dybbuk from a brief Google search.
> 
> There should be two chapters left. (That's one chapter more than I estimated at the end of an earlier chapter.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all the subscriptions, kudos, comments, and bookmarks so far.
> 
> If you'd like to leave your thoughts, I'd love to read them! :)


	13. Romans 12:1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of long.
> 
> Also, it comes with major warnings. A lot of bad things happened to Anna, and there's explicit mention of them, including rape. Plus, Uriel and Zachariah are generally terrible human beings.
> 
> Additionally, there are some potentially offensive ideas of God here, but they're not atypical of _Supernatural_.
> 
> This chapter was difficult to write, and I got emotional while writing it . . . yet I drafted the entire chapter in one sitting. Make of that what you will.
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading, and your thoughts are quite welcome.

Castiel gasped when the woman appeared in the library. Though he’d felt her presence in his dreams, he had not actually _seen_ her until now. She matched Jessica’s description to the exact detail. The brown dress, the red hair, the anguished green eyes. The dot of blood on her temple and cheek, the red scar at the base of her neck.

She glowed, and he could see right through her.

Her eyes surveyed the individuals around her; then she faced Sam and Jessica. “You are the fools who tampered with the graves of Uriel and Zachariah!” she raged. They shrank under her intense gaze. “Do you know how long it took me to fill those caskets back up?”

Sam gaped at her, and Castiel understood his puzzled reaction. Of all the things they had expected her to bring up, the remains of Uriel and Zachariah had not been one of them.

Jessica swallowed and stammered, her voice filled with fright, “W . . . What’s it for? The hair?”

Anna stalked toward Jessica until she was merely an inch away from her. She grasped a strand of red hair and held it out toward Jessica. “Feel.”

Jessica tentatively brushed a fingertip over the tip of the lock then flinched, snatching her hand away. “It burns,” Jessica whispered.

“They must suffer for their sins. And you and this . . . man—” She spat out the word as if it were a curse. “—you would have saved them.”

“We—” Jessica began.

“But I could not care less about you two,” Anna continued. She extended her arms, hands held up, and with a whoosh, Sam and Jessica were tossed through a window.

Castiel’s breath hitched at what happened next.

She sprouted wings—large, solid black wings, seemingly more tangible than her flickering body. Her eyes briefly flashed with a blue light before resuming their normal color.

She turned to Dean, and he widened his eyes, their glassy green filled with awe and terror. She took one step toward him, and Castiel felt something pushing through his back, accompanied by excruciating pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a wing protruding from his back, and he whipped his head around to the other side, where he discovered another one. They were wings, black like Anna’s, but striated with faint traces of blue, and not nearly as long.

Cold metal chafed against the length of his right forearm. With his left hand, he reached under the sleeve of his trench coat and pulled out a sword. Where had that come from? He shifted the blade to his right hand.

He was too shocked to react any further.

Dean’s mouth hung open, as did Anna’s, and for a minute no one said anything. Finally, Dean urged, “Kill ’er, Cas!”

But now Castiel felt a wave of emotions radiating from Anna, the distress, the sorrow. Whatever she was, she had been deeply hurt, and though he might be able to kill her with these strange new properties he had somehow manifested, he did not want to. Dean opened his mouth to speak again, but Castiel shoved a hand in his direction. “No, Dean. I will not do that.”

“Nephilim,” Anna hissed, her countenance astonished. “You are not like the others. They did not . . . in all the years, you are the only one who has inherited the gene.”

Nephilim. Why did that term sound familiar?

She straightened, and now she appeared more intimidating. The light around her brightened, rendering her appearance even more otherworldly. “I am an Angel of the Lord,” she announced, her voice reverberating in the small space of the library.

Castiel laughed nervously. That was preposterous. How could she be an Angel of the Lord? She was too . . . bitter. But what did he think an angel was, a creature with fluffy white wings and a golden halo? Had he ever believed such cuddly beings even existed? Though he believed his church’s teachings with all his heart, that idea had always had the ring of myth.

Now he remembered. _Nephilim_. The offspring of an angel and a human. An abomination, it was said.

He owed his life not only to a rape, but added to this. . . Uriel had impregnated an _angel_. Abused her and forced her to bear his child.

He felt sick.

“As for you . . . ” she snarled at Dean, striding toward him with uncanny speed. She wrapped her hands around his neck, and Dean emitted a gagging noise.

“Please don’t hurt him,” Castiel begged.

She released her grip, and Dean gasped, clutching his neck. She stared at Castiel as if burrowing into the very depths of his soul. “You have feelings for this one,” she declared.

Tears prickled his eyes, and he bobbed his head, _yes_. Confusion dawned on Dean when Castiel nodded, and then Castiel realized Anna had not spoken aloud—she’d transferred her last words to him telepathically. Her lips had not moved.

Again, her words appeared in his mind while her mouth remained still. “A man like this, so eager to kill? You Novaks were always perverse.” She turned to Dean again and said, out loud this time, “I have no interest in you, anyway.” She threw up her arms and hurled him through a window.

She approached Castiel, her long legs moving fluidly. When she stopped, she was so close their noses almost touched. “It is you I must punish,” she pronounced. “Your bloodline is stained with iniquity.”

So she meant to kill him, finally. If so, he didn’t want to die without knowing the answer to one question. “Why now?” he managed to breathe. “Why not punish me twenty years ago?”

“You were but a child, innocent according to the laws of my Father. But now the sin taints you.” Her eyes dropped to his neck, alighting on the necklace and its cross pendent. She grasped it and yanked it toward her, the motion cutting off Castiel’s oxygen. “They used this to trap me in my vessel, to bind me to them,” she fumed. “For I cannot touch it without harming my grace.” Castiel observed white light seeping out from between her fingers. She released him, and the light disappeared.

A fire erupted around them, crackling as it commenced consuming books and shelves. She placed a hand on top of his head, and he cowered, his back hitting the front desk. The collision produced a rustle as he shed a few feathers.

“I shall smite you anon,” she assured him. “But first, you will know of the transgression.”

Images, thoughts, and emotions flickered through his mind, accompanied by a darkness that thrust his soul into despair, an absolute darkness with total absence of light.

_Two men inside a church. First Baptist Church, the floorboards still pristine. On the far side of the building, a body lay on the ground in a large pool of blood._

_Castiel examined the two men. They were both tall, dressed as people from the early half of the 1800s, one of them brown-haired with dispassionate dark brown eyes and a beard to match his hair, the other with golden blonde hair, a handlebar mustache, and blue eyes like his own._

(Uriel. It had to be. He had inherited Uriel’s eyes. The thought horrified him.)

(No, not like yours, crueler.)

Anna had conveyed the thought to him. Why attempt to comfort him if she wanted to kill him?

_The men grinned at each other and laughed, the sound harsh. “Count that one more victory for Lemegeton,” the brunette said._

_“Yes, Zachariah,” Uriel affirmed. “One less demon to taint the world.” A blood-stained dagger dangled from his fingers. They stepped toward the body, and Castiel cringed upon closer inspection of the scene._

_It was a young woman, naked, her torso sliced open in the shape of a cross, entrails gushing out. The skin around her eyes was bruised, swollen. Scars dotted her arms, and her neck was cleanly slit._

_“I always enjoy the virgins,” Uriel said. “And the best part is, we are doing God’s work at the same time.” That was when Castiel observed the trail of blood on the girl’s thighs. He wanted to vomit._

_“Why should we not claim a reward for our righteousness,” Zachariah commented._

_“Why not indeed.”_

(ANAEL, a voice? thought? boomed. THESE MEN CLAIM TO DO _MY_ WORK, BUT THEY REVEL IN TORTURE EVEN AS THEY RID THE WORLD OF DEMONS. IF THEY WISH TO SERVE _ME_ , THEY MUST NOT CONTINUE AS THEY ARE, FOR IT IS EVIL.

GO DOWN TO THEM, ANAEL. CORRECT THEM.)

(Flashes of love. The desire to obey.)

_Uriel’s wife Anna was a good woman, godly, and knew nothing of her husband’s activities. She was also Anael’s vessel, which was obviously why Anael had been chosen for this important task._

_Anael appeared to Anna in a dream, all white light and gentleness and love._

_“Anna,” she whispered into her ear, “I am an Angel of the Lord. My name is Anael.”_

_“An Angel of the Lord?” Anna’s mind replied with awe._

_“Yes. Will you help me conduct God’s work?”_

_A burst of happiness from Anna. “Yes! I have prayed for this for so long, since I was a child . . . I have long wished I could do important work for the Lord. That is why I married Uriel.”_

_Anael pitied this innocent woman. For as her vessel, Anna would soon learn her husband was not as righteous as she believed._

_“My Father has heard your prayers,” Anael told her. “He has chosen you to assist me.”_

_“What must I do?”_

_“Let me in. You must let me in.”_

_“Yes. Come in.”_

_“I must have your explicit consent. There must be no doubt.”_

_“I consent with everything I am.”_

_When Anael entered her, Anna felt the holiness of the being she had allowed inside, and she burned._

(A flutter indicated the passage of time.)

_Uriel cornered her in the kitchen. “Good morning, my dear,” she said as she kissed him on the cheek. He must not suspect she was anything other than his wife._

_But there must have been something unconvincing about her performance, for Uriel turned aggressive._

_He pushed her against the wall and growled, “You are not my wife! Who are you?”_

_“It is I, Uriel,” she replied meekly, as Anna would. “Who else would I be?”_

_He slapped her. “Demon, flee! Release my wife this instant!”_

_She teared up, as Anna would. “Uriel, please. I am no demon,” she pleaded, as Anna would._

_“There is only one way to be certain.” He left the room and returned a moment later with a set of chains. “You must don these.”_

_She widened her eyes in alarm, as Anna would. “Uriel, what is this? You are frightening me.”_

_“If it really is you, darling, you have nothing to fear.”_

_She placed the neck chain on first, and she felt as if it was choking her. Next came the wrist chains; then she couldn’t move her hands._

_“Aha!” Uriel exclaimed. “I knew it! You are my wife no longer!” He slapped the ankle chains on her then hiked up her skirt, where he clasped on a chastity belt. “I must fetch Zachariah. Do not move, demon! Oh, but the warning is unnecessary, for you cannot,” he taunted, cackling as he exited the house._

_Uriel had discovered she was not Anna. She must somehow use this opportunity to carry out her mission. She had been planning to wait at least a few more days, masquerading as Anna so she could gather information about them. For some reason, she could not read Uriel and Zachariah’s minds as she could that of other humans. Perhaps they possessed a talisman belonging to the Order of Lemegeton._

_She heard the door open, close then two sets of footsteps. “Here she is. The demon,” Uriel spat._

_“She cannot move?” Zachariah said._

_“Move, Anna,” Uriel ordered. She struggled against the chains, but it was useless._

_“Well, well, well. We must be notorious among their kind. This is an attempt to destroy us, but we are easily more intelligent than the denizens of hell,” Zachariah concluded._

_“I am not a demon,” Anael croaked. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”_

_Uriel struck her in the jaw, and her teeth cut into her lip, from which blood dripped. “You dare to blaspheme, demon?” he yelled._

_“But I am,” she maintained._

_“That is impossible,” Zachariah argued. “If that is so, then why do the chains restrain you?”_

_“Many demons are fallen angels,” Anael explained. “My Father built all his angels in a similar fashion.”_

_“Why would we believe such nonsense?”_

_Uriel scratched his chin, his face pensive. Anael had never seen such empty eyes on a human. Eventually, he grinned, the expression sinister on him. “We could have fun with this one. She—it—deserves to be punished severely, for it impersonated my wife.” He turned to his cousin. “What say you, Zachariah?”_

_Zachariah’s smile resembled Uriel’s. “I like the idea very much.”_

_Uriel shoved her against the wall and took off the chastity belt. He inserted a hand between her legs then into her vagina, and she gasped at the pain. He smirked. “You will enjoy this.”_

_“My Father will destroy you for your misdeeds,” she spat._

_“Lucifer has no power over us.”_

_He shoved her to the floor and cut off her dress with a knife, the one he and his cousin used to kill demons. He pinned her wrists to the ground and ran greedy hands over her skin._

_He unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down to his knees._

_He was planning to_ violate _her_.

_He pushed into her, and she shrieked._

_She closed her eyes and prayed silently. God, please help me. Save me, please._

_It struck Anael that Anna was witnessing her husband’s actions. She could feel the woman huddling in a corner of her mind, hurting with Anael, her innocence shattered, her broken terror._

_Father, please stop this. Please, please, please._

_Help me._

_Help Anna._

_She does not deserve this._

_Uriel ran rough hands over her body, squeezing a breast, emitting an animalistic grunt._

_Father, help me._

_Please. Please, help us._

_Tears streamed down her cheeks._

_Father, please._

_Please please please._

_Father save me._

_Father, if I have displeased you, I am sorry. This is too much._

_Father please._

_Help help help._

_Father_

_Father_

_Father_

_When she felt a particularly deep thrust, she bit her lip, exacerbating the earlier wound, tasting the cold metallic tang of blood._

_Help help._

_But her pleas were feeble now._

_Father._

_It was one last desperate whine._

_Uriel’s body convulsed, and she felt his spunk slip inside her. He collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily, chuckling._

_She squeezed her eyes shut, moisture still leaking from them. She hiccupped a sob._

_Father had not come for her. Father had_ abandoned _her to these monstrous men._

_She had believed him, loved him with all her grace, but he had not come for her._

_He had allowed these men to commit their foul deeds._

_Anna was weeping, wracked with horror._

_Father had allowed this godly woman to suffer._

_If Father was not going to save Anael, at least she could save this poor woman._

_She snuffed Anna out, knowing the woman would enter heaven._

_Anna did not deserve to endure the depravity of her husband._

(Tears seeped from Castiel’s eyes. He retched, expelling nothing but empty air.)

(Click.)

_Perhaps she could escape her vessel when the men decided to take off the chains. If they decided to take off the chains._

_She experienced a surge of hope when she spotted Zachariah with the keys for the restraints._

_But they placed a necklace around her neck before freeing her._

_The cross lay on her clavicle, burning a hole._

_She attempted to take it off, but white light poured from her fingers when she touched it._

_“We have not seen them emit light like that before, have we?” Uriel said. Zachariah shook his head. “Most curious.” He gestured at the necklace. “That should keep it inside, should it not?”_

_“It should indeed, cousin.”_

_“You have not seen this light because it is not demonic,” Anael rasped. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”_

_“If you are an Angel of the Lord, then why did the Lord not save you?” Uriel retorted._

_“I do not know,” she sniffled. Perhaps Father was punishing her for failing to carry out her task. But she had not had enough time before Uriel detected her presence._

_If Father was punishing her, it was cruel._

_He wouldn’t. He was a merciful, loving Father._

_Yet he would. That must be the case, or else why was she still here?_

_Or perhaps Father just did not care._

_She did not know which thought was more frightening._

_“If you were an Angel of the Lord, the necklace would not confine you,” Zachariah added._

_“I told you, some demons are former angels—”_

_Uriel kicked her in the side. “You cannot deceive us, demon.”_

(Click.)

_The men had drugged her, and now she lay on the floor blindfolded as she drifted into consciousness._

_She felt the coldness of the chains on her._

_She tried to move, but she could not. As with the last time they had chained her, she was paralyzed._

_“Do not struggle, my sweet,” Uriel growled._

_“Wha--?” she slurred._

_A hand clapped over her mouth. “Shh,” the owner of the hand urged. Zachariah._

(This was the incident from his dream, Castiel realized. He shrank, knowing what happened next.)

_Someone removed the chastity belt and stroked her vagina slowly. “You’re gonna enjoy this,” Uriel sneered._

_“Please,” she whimpered, not above begging now._

_“Now, is that any way to speak to your savior,” Uriel chided. “You are a monster. This is the least you deserve.”_

(Savior? How could anyone construe Uriel’s actions as those of a _savior_?)

_“No, please, I’m not—”_

_Then something plunged inside her, followed by a grunt that sounded as if it came from Uriel._

_She screamed._

_“Do not make a sound,” Zachariah hissed as a hand jammed itself against her mouth._

_There were two bodies pressing against her now, she was sure, even if she couldn’t see anything, and the weight flush against her skin was suffocating._

_And she couldn’t_

_No, no, please, no—_

_It_ _hurt—_

_Hurt hurt hurt hurt_

_And she was so alone, no one would save her, God wouldn’t save her—_

(Castiel understood the sentiment now. This had happened before, and God had not saved her. God had never saved her. She sent Castiel the knowledge . . .  Uriel and Zachariah had . . . raped her countless times.

This could not be his God. No, no, no.)

_Eventually, Anael discovered she was pregnant. Even though he believed she was a demon, Uriel was delighted at the news. He convinced himself the baby would be Anna’s, that demons could not bear children._

_But Anael had sent Anna away, of course. The child would be hers and Uriel’s. Though Zachariah had performed sexual acts with her, only Uriel had actually penetrated her._

_During her pregnancy, Uriel and Zachariah did not harm her, for they wished to keep the baby safe. But one night, Uriel told her he would kill her once the child was born._

_There came the day when the child arrived, and the birth was painful, even if Anael was an angel._

_Uriel named him Esper._

_Strange, ths family favoring the names of angels even as they behaved like monsters._

_Uriel hired a wet nurse, and one night, he put the chains on her once again. He and Zachariah carried her to their carriage, flinging her inside._

_They went to Picketsville Lake._

_There was more forced sex, on the banks of the lake, she divested of her dark brown dress while they remained mostly clothed. This time, both men entered her. Afterward, Uriel held the knife aloft and grinned sadistically. He dragged her to the lake and shoved her head under the water, periodically yanking her head above the surface. When he did so, she would cough up water._

_Sheriff Frank Devereaux appeared, and Anael felt a sliver of hope. Perhaps he would stop the madmen._

_“What are you doing here?” Devereaux asked them; then, with a shock, he spotted Anael. “What is this?” He turned to Uriel. “How could you treat your wife so?”_

_“Ah, but Sheriff, she is not my wife!” With that, he sliced her throat, and white light exploded around them, so bright they had to cover their eyes._

_“What in heaven’s name--?” the sheriff began._

_And she was alive no more. She was given a choice: heaven or earth._

_She chose earth. She hated heaven now; it was full of lies. Happiness, but lies._

_If her Father would not enforce His law, then she would do so._

_She would punish the Novaks, Adlers, and Devereauxes for as long as they should produce new generations. It did not matter if they knew why they were being punished; Reverend Novak had rejected knowledge of her true nature when she had offered it, and so they would be destroyed._

_No good could come from those three family lines._

_She would punish someone every twenty years, she decided. In memory of Anna, who would have been twenty when Anael died._

(The Bible verses, Castiel realized. That came from one of the journal’s Bible verses. Anael had written the journal, not Uriel.

Castiel’s body shook, his mind rebelling against the information he’d been given. It had to be all lies. God would not behave as Anael claimed He had. God was good, God was gracious, God was love.—

God always came to the aid of those who deserved it, who prayed for it.)

“He does not,” Anael stated.

One more scene appeared before his eyes.

The fire from his childhood.

_Anael cut off a chunk of her hair, whispering an incantation to keep it from burning the young human. She wrapped it around his eyes and turned back to the couple, the house burning around them._

_She placed a hand atop each of their heads and showed them what had happened to her. Though it did not matter whether they knew or not, she wanted them to know, she had decided._

_“Why show us such vile things?” the man_ (Dad) _asked. “Nothing but lies!”_

 _“You’re a monster,” the woman_ (Mom) _gasped, her eyes focused on Anael’s wings._

_“I am an Angel of the Lord,” she told them._

_“Get behind me, Satan!” the man yelled._

_“The Lord will guide us; the Lord will save us,” the woman recited. “Heavenly Father, please save us from this demon. We place our faith in You, O Lord.” The man’s voice joined hers, and they held hands._

_“Help us, O Lord._

_“Help us._

_“Help us.”_

_Anael noticed the blindfold had slipped from one of the child’s eyes, and he was awake. She pushed it back and hushed him. She would ensure the boy did not remember this, for he was not guilty, not yet._

_She conjured a protective shield around him as the house burned._

Castiel sobbed now, great, big, shuddering sobs. He had just watched his parents die. What kind of monster would make him view that?

“They always call me monster,” Anael lamented. She removed her hand from his head.

“That’s because you _are_ a monster!” he screeched.

“But don’t you see, Castiel? I am not the monster. They prayed, and God did not save them.”

“But they were innocent! They never would’ve done anything like . . . like what you showed me.”

“If God cared, He would have saved them. Anna was innocent, and _I_ had to save her.”

Castiel continued to weep. He was not sure he could digest everything Anael had just revealed to him.

They had to be lies. She had to be a monster. Had to be, had to be.

But when she had delved into his mind, he had sensed her true nature: she was ethereal, not monstrous.

Perhaps it was the Nephilim inside him that recognized the angel in her.

All she wanted was acknowledgment of her suffering. To be vindicated. To have someone willingly sacrifice themselves as restitution.

A steep price, but after everything he’d seen, he was willing. Maybe no one else would be, and then Anael would continue punishing people for all eternity.

A Bible verse from the journal guided him: _I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service._

The fire was creeping ever closer. He felt the faint prickle of heat on his arms, his cheeks.

“Anael,” Castiel said, tears falling from his eyes once again. “I am sorry for what happened to you. So, so sorry. I wish . . . I wish I could undo it.

“But I cannot. Therefore, I offer my body as a living sacrifice, and I hope it is acceptable to you.” The sword clattered from his hand to the ground.

She looked surprised by his words, and her eyes watered. After a moment, she answered, “It is.”

“I have only one request. Will you stop the punishments now? I don’t . . . I don’t want anyone else to suffer.”

“I will stop, Castiel.”

“Thank you.” He stepped toward her, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He tried to smile, but the motion faltered. “I am ready, Anael.”

She stretched out her arms, and Castiel felt the process begin.

He burned from the inside out.


	14. Leviticus 26:39-42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the longest chapter of them all by far. I hope this ending is satisfactory.

Dean’s eyes felt as if they had been glued shut, and he blinked them open with an enormous effort.

Chaos greeted him.

Flashes of blue and red punctuated the darkness. Something wet dripped from the hairline of his neck, and he brushed his fingers over the area. With the next spasm of colored light, he got a good look at the substance.

Blood.

He twisted around and discovered the library had been engulfed by a roaring blaze. Firefighters rushed to it, hoses at the ready, while two EMTs hurried toward him.

“Are you hurt?” the woman asked.

“Of course he’s hurt,” the man snapped. “Can’t you see he’s out of it?”

He scanned the crowd for signs of the other three and spotted Sam and Jessica in the parking lot, Sam with an arm around her, the tears streaming down her cheeks illuminated by the flickering lights.

But no sign of Cas.

The man clasped his arm. “Let’s get you to an ambulance,” he said.

Dean swatted his hand away and shouted, “Get the fuck away from me!”

The woman winced when he stood up. “You should really let us take a look at that,” she urged.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled as he staggered toward Sam and Jess. “Where the hell is Cas?” he growled when he reached them. They better not say the bastard hadn’t made it.

Jess averted her eyes, and Sam stammered, “I—I think he’s still in there.”

“Then what the fuck are we waitin’ for? Let’s go get his ass!” Dean began to stroll toward the library, but Sam yanked him back by the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Let the firefighters take care of it, Dean,” he advised. “They’ll find him.”

The fuck they would. What were they, members of some Podunk volunteer fire department? He surged forward again, but this time Sam restrained him with both arms.

A pickup pulled into the parking lot, and out stepped none other than that old coot Bobby Singer.

Shit. They guy was Cas’s surrogate father. What were they going to tell him?

Singer’s eyes focused on the fire as he strode toward them. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Um, the library’s on fire,” Sam replied.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Singer stared at the three of them, and Dean shrank under his gaze, imagining the accusations he would make. Justifiably so. “Where’s Cas?”

Dean and Sam shifted uncomfortably, and Jess responded, her voice a timid whisper, “He hasn’t come out of the library.”

“Then why the fuck are ya idjits just standin’ around?” He started toward the building, but a couple of police officers blocked his way.

“Stay back, Mr. Singer,” they warned. “We’ll handle this.”

“The hell ya will!” he snarled as he struggled against the officers’ grip.

“Stop this, Mr. Singer, or you will be placed under arrest,” one of the policemen threatened.

“Fine, but I swear, if ya don’t bring me back my boy, I’m goin’ all medieval on your ass!” He retreated to the parking lot, fuming.

Another police officer approached Dean, Sam, and Jessica, asking for their statements about “the incident.” How could she sound so clinically detached?

“I’m not sure if you’d believe us if we told you,” Jessica said.

“Try me,” the policewoman replied.

Jessica and Sam explained Anna Milton’s sudden appearance, and the woman looked skeptical. The exchange jogged Dean’s memory.

Both Anna and Cas had unfurled freakin’ _wings_. Or so he recalled. But that couldn’t be right, could it? Maybe Dean had hallucinated.

Should he say anything about that? Nah. Even Sam would think he was nuts.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the police officer said. “Because this is no laughing matter.”

“’Course not,” Dean pronounced. “It’s the damn truth.” _Bitch._

She eyed Bobby and approached him. “What about you? What do you know?”

“I wasn’t here,” he said. “But I reckon those young ’uns are tellin’ the truth?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because look at them. They’re freakin’ petrified.”

What the hell? Dean wasn’t _petrified._ Okay, maybe a little. He’d never seen anything that claimed to be an Angel of the Lord.

Were those even real? Angels?

Well, Anna did possess friggin’ _wings_ , for cryin’ out loud.

“Maybe,” the policewoman acknowledged. “But I’m not sure if my supervisors will believe it.”

“Then fuck your supervisors!” Singer spat.

She smiled grimly. “That’s not how it works.” All right, perhaps the police lady was actually frickin’ awesome.

Eventually, a film crew from a local news station and a reporter from the _Picketsville Sentinel_ arrived, but Dean, Sam, and Jessica refused to talk to both of them. Dean snorted when Singer told the journalists to “stick their questions where the sun don’t shine.”

Maybe the grizzled old timer was pretty awesome, too.

Dean lost track of the hours as the four of them loitered. They watched in silence as the firefighters first got the fire under control then put it out. Finally, most of the police officers and EMTs left (as did the news people), and only a few firefighters remained. They strung a line of yellow tape around where the library had just stood; nothing remained but cinders. A firefighter told them not to trespass over the line.

“What about Cas? Where is he?” Singer asked.

With horror, Dean realized the answer.

“We couldn’t find him. I’m sorry, Mr. Singer,” the fireman apologized. With that, he and his compatriots piled into their truck and raced away.

“Fuckin’ motherfuckers,” Singer raged.

 _No_. Cas wasn’t dead. Dean refused to believe that. If Cas had survived one fire, he could survive another, right?

Right?

He darted toward the rubble. Sam tried to snatch him back, but when he lunged for Dean’s wrist, he missed. Dean heard Jessica murmur to Sam, “Let him go.”

Dean ducked under the police tape and ignored the debris as it crunched under his boots and coated the bottom of his jeans. His mind focused on _Cas, Cas, Cas, Cas_. Here was someone else he’d failed to protect. Someone he’d actually _liked_ . . . a lot.

And the last thing he’d done was _argue_ with Cas . . .

_No._

But as a hunter, he knew there was never any mercy in this world. His hopes were irrational.

Still, a part of him clung to them, no matter how absurd.

After what felt like forever, _there_ , he saw it—

A body.

Castiel, right? Right? He must still be alive; there was no friggin’ way a _body_ wouldn’t have been consumed by the fire.

He dashed toward the form and sure enough, it was Cas, his trench coat and black pants singed, soot dotting his figure, ashes highlighting the angularity of his cheekbones. Dean knelt beside Castiel and put his ear to the man’s lips.

Nothing.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he wept.

_No. No no no no no._

He briefly pressed his lips to Cas’s then rocked back on the balls of his feet.

He crouched there so long his thighs began to burn. At one point, his eyes drifted somewhere to the left.

A cough.

No, _he_ hadn’t coughed.

He turned sharply and faced Castiel, whose eyes fluttered open. Even in the dark, they were shockingly blue. He tried to sit up, but he winced and slumped back to the ground

A small smile tugged at Dean’s lips. “Cas—”

“You . . .” Cas gasped out, his voice scratchy. “You kissed me.”

If it weren’t so dark, Castiel would notice a blush blossoming on Dean’s cheeks. “Yeah, about that—”

“Do it again,” Cas breathed.

“What?” Dean responded, too stunned to move. There was no way he’d just heard Cas correctly.

“I said,” Cas panted, “do it again, Dean Winchester.” He managed to sit up, this time supporting himself with both palms in the dirt.

Oh, fuck it, Dean decided.

He leaned forward, cupping Cas’s jaw as he planted his lips on the other man’s.

The kiss was fuller this time, their tongues dueling, their mouths greedy, each man reveling in the other’s taste.

Finally, they had to pull away for oxygen. Dean studied Cas and railed, “You scared the shit outta me, man!”

“I’m sorry?” Castiel replied.

Dean laughed and snaked a hand around Cas’s shoulders. “C’mon, lemme help ya up. We’ve gotta let everyone know you’re not . . . y’know. Dead.” The last word came out in a whisper.

Castiel quirked an eyebrow and challenged, “Are you sure?”

Was that supposed to be a joke? Dean had no idea. “I’m sure, smartass.”

Dean supported Castiel’s weight as they struggled into a standing position then staggered toward the parking lot. It took a while for them to reach the police barrier. When they did, Dean maneuvered the pair underneath then shouted at the party awaiting him. “Look what I found!”

“Cas!” Jessica exclaimed before running to the edge of the parking lot and enveloping her friend in a tight embrace. Castiel flinched at the rough contact, and Jessica pulled back. “Oh. Sorry.” Still, she beamed.

Sam approached next and clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Glad to see you’re okay, man,” he said.

Last came Singer, who scowled at Castiel. “If you ever do that again, boy--!” he glowered.

Castiel flashed one of those adorable tiny grins. “I love you, too, Bobby.”

“Aw, hell, it’s good to have ya back, son!” he sniffled before throwing his arms around Cas, making sure to be gentler than Jessica.

Once Singer stepped back, Dean announced, “I’m takin’ him home.”

Singer opened his mouth as if to object, but Dean gave him a look that made him think better of the action. Instead, he turned to Cas and said, “You okay with this?”

“Yes, Bobby,” Castiel replied. He glanced at Dean with a fond expression. “I would very much like Dean to take me home.”

“Your call,” Singer muttered.

Dean helped Cas into the Impala. Neither of them said a word during the drive to Castiel’s house. It was difficult to hobble up the steps with Cas, but Dean managed. After some time, they finally made it to Castiel’s bedroom, where Dean drew off Cas’s coat with care. The motion revealed large swathes of dried blood on the back of the man’s long-sleeved white shirt, and Dean was about to suggest he tend to the wounds when Castiel collapsed onto the bed and sighed.

“I’m so tired,” Cas yawned as he closed his eyes.

“I’ll leave you to your beauty sleep then,” Dean said after removing Cas’s shoes.

But before Dean could exit the room, Cas’s eyes flew open. “Will you stay with me, Dean?” he pleaded. “I . . . I don’t want to be alone.”

“’Course.” Dean kicked off his boots, threw his leather jacket on the back of a desk chair, and stretched out on the bed beside Cas. It was fucking freezing, and they were _on top_ of the covers rather than below them, like sensible people, but he could tell Castiel didn’t have the strength to move much.

“I feel like someone flayed my back,” Castiel said.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Dean asked.

“You may.” Castiel rolled onto his side to grant Dean access to his back.

Dean snorted. The formal tone . . . it was just so _Cas_ , and it warmed his heart. He untucked Cas’s shirt and rolled it up then winced at the sight that greeted him: a gash on each shoulder blade, the wounds scabbing yet raw. “That must sting pretty bad,” Dean noted. “I could put some ointment on it. If you want.”

“Yes, Dean, thank you. That is very kind.”

Dean bounded off the bed and ambled into the living room, where he’d left a bag last time he’d spent the night here. He rummaged around until he found the cream then returned to the bedroom. There, Dean squeezed a generous amount of the stuff onto his hand and rubbed it over the lacerations. With the first touch, Castiel yelped in pain.

Dean removed his hand. “You okay?”

“I will be fine. Continue. Please.” Dean resumed the task, enjoying the feel of Cas’s corded muscles underneath his hands. “She ripped them out,” Castiel commented. Dean felt the rumble of Cas’s voice in his hands.

“Ripped what out?” Dean repeated. “Oh . . . Wait. So you _did_ have wings!”

“Of course I had wings,” Castiel replied, as if possessing freakin’ _wings_ was the most natural thing in the world.

“Too bad they’re gone. They were badass.”

“I’d just as soon not have them.”

“There. All done.” Dean wiped the residue on his jeans, and Castiel turned to face him. “Where’d they come from, anyway? The wings?” Dean ventured.

“I . . . they must have been with me all along,” Castiel concluded.

“But why did they pop out then?”

Castiel picked at the blanket beneath him. “I don’t know. But I have a theory,” he said shyly.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

Castiel’s eyes met his, and the vulnerability in them . . . Dean’s heart thrummed. “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You. Instinct . . . Like fight or flight.”

“Huh?”

“My subconscious perceived a threat to your person.” Castiel sounded as if he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world.

“Um. So,” Dean stammered.

“My head hurts,” Castiel declared, rolling onto his back. He winced, but he didn’t alter his position. “I feel like someone hit it with a hammer.”

Before Dean could think too much about it, he bookended Cas’s head with his hands, shivering when strands of brown hair brushed the insides of his wrists. He massaged Cas’s temples and inquired, “How’s that feel?”

“Mmm. ’S nice,” Castiel breathed.

Castiel drifted to sleep as Dean continued to knead his temples. Eventually, Dean’s eyes slipped closed and he lay there, peaceful, his arm flung across Castiel’s chest.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel awoke, early morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, the white curtains barely muffling it. The weight on his chest soothed him, and his eyes coasted downward to the arm Dean had draped over his chest.

So, Jessica had been right after all.

He smiled at the man next to him; Dean was so beautiful in repose.

Last night, he’d known he was going to die. He had accepted his fate. Yet Anael had chosen to show him mercy.

Why?

She had divested him of his wings, so she had not left him completely unscathed.

He recalled the excruciating pain of last night, with the library’s fire closing in on him and the fire inside him radiating outward.

At one point, something began carving into his shoulder blades. He was already mostly blind then, white light blanketing everything around him with only dim shadows lingering beneath it here and there.

Then—

Disintegration.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, Dean kneeling beside him and staring off into the distance.

His lips had tingled, and he’d _known_ —Dean had kissed him. Like when he’d known the dream about Anna—Anael—had been a representation of the past. In his mind, he had glimpsed a flash of Dean’s face close to his, despair etched into it.

On the bed, Dean stirred, and his eyes opened. Castiel grinned at him and said, “Good morning.”

“’Mornin’, Cas,” Dean muttered sleepily. After a minute, he bit his lip as if restraining laughter.

Castiel frowned. “What?”

Unable to fight the impulse any longer, Dean chuckled. “You need a shower, man.”

Castiel glanced down at his body, the patches of ash on his shirt and pants. The cinders stained the blanket, too. “Oh. I suppose I do.” Dean proffered a soft grin, and it brought out his freckles. Castiel examined them for a minute, savoring their loveliness against Dean’s skin.

Then he realized—now that everything was over, Dean would probably leave soon. Perhaps even today. He regretted that they wouldn’t have any more time to explore this connection between them, but at least he had learned Dean shared his sentiments. “I shall miss you when you’re gone,” Castiel murmured.

Dean’s face fell. “Yeah. That.” His fingertips ghosted over Castiel’s lips for a delectable moment before he removed them. “Well. You could come with.”

“Come with?” Castiel echoed, puzzled.

“You’re right. It’s a dumb idea. Too dangerous.”

Oh, _come with_. He’d been so astounded by the words he hadn’t been able to process them when they were spoken.

“’Course. It’s not something normal people do,” Dean rambled. “No one does it by choice, not really. They—”

Castiel tuned out Dean as he contemplated the offer. What reason did he have to stay? With the library in ruins, he no longer had a job, and he doubted the building would ever be rebuilt. For the past few years, leading Picketsville citizens had discussed shutting it down, and it was only by sheer force of will that Jessica and he had been able to keep it open.

Jessica and Bobby—he would miss them, but they would understand. He didn’t want to lose this opportunity to pursue this magical _thing_ between him and Dean.

“Yes,” Castiel said.

“What?” Dean replied.

“I said—” He skimmed a finger along Dean’s jawline. “Yes. I will go with you.”

“Thank God,” Dean huffed.

“You should not take the Lord’s name in vain,” Castiel teased. After last night, he knew he would never again say those words in earnest. Anael’s experiences had shattered his faith, yet he felt tranquil. During this past week, he had learned there was more in this universe than his worldview had ever encompassed. Much of it was evil, but there was good, too, like this thing budding between him and Dean.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean breathed as he inched closer to Castiel. He threaded a hand through Castiel’s hair, but to Castiel’s annoyance, his lips barely touched Castiel’s before he pulled back. “Hey. Look at this,” Dean urged, holding up a feather. It must have been tangled in Castiel’s hair.

“It’s one of mine,” Castiel marveled as he accepted the feather from Dean. Black, striped with bits of blue, sublime. He placed it on the bedside table. “I will keep this memento. Always.”

“C’mere,” Dean mumbled, grasping the end of Castiel’s tie and using it to pull him closer. They stayed like that for a moment, forming a tableau. Castiel tilted his head to the side and studied Dean studying him. “How do you manage to be so freakin’ adorable?” Dean whispered, tracing a finger along Castiel’s cheek. It came away blackened. “Even with your face all smudged up. Especially with your face all smudged up.”  Finally, his lips were on Castiel’s, deliciously rough. Tongues darted into mouths, and Castiel buried a hand in Dean’s hair. Dean rucked up Castiel’s shirt, splaying hands on his hipbones, shoving him into a supine position. Castiel tucked his free hand under Dean’s shirt and ran it over the side of Dean’s torso. Up, down, then up again.

Dean planted a knee on each side of Castiel, and Castiel gasped when Dean ground down against him, the friction inflaming him even if layers of clothing stood between them.

All of a sudden, a vision of Anael and Uriel Novak flashed through his mind, and it nauseated him. He couldn’t get caught up in Dean, not now, not with that in his head . . . and besides, he really wouldn’t want to rush things, would he? He wasn’t the sort.

And he was nervous.

No, he wasn’t ready.

“Dean,” Castiel breathed. Dean seemed not to have heard him, for he continued to rub those wonderfully coarse hands over Castiel’s chest; he even thrust one underneath Castiel’s waistband. “Dean,” Castiel repeated, louder now.

Dean drew back an inch and said, “Yeah?”

Lust darkened Dean’s hazel-green eyes . . . lust for _him_ , Castiel realized with a thrill. In that instant, his resolve almost broke. “Do you mind if we take this slowly?” Dean furrowed his brow, and Castiel waved a hand between them. “I’m new to this . . . ” he explained.

“New to what?”

Castiel reddened. “I . . . I’ve never been with anyone before.”

Dean still looked confused, but eventually he understood Castiel’s meaning. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve never had sex?” Castiel’s blush deepened. “Man, you’ve been missin’ out. We’ve gotta fix that, stat.”

“Dean,” Castiel warned.

“All right, all right. Of course, Cas. No pressure.” Something vibrated in Dean’s pocket, and he snatched out his phone. “Text from Sam,” he explained. “He says him and Jess wanna meet us at the motel for lunch.” His eyes met Castiel’s. “What do you think?”

“Tell him we’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

After Dean tapped out the message, Castiel grew worried. “Will Sam mind if I come with you?”

“Nah. Don’t worry about Sam.” He paused then asked, “So, whaddaya wanna do now?”

“I should probably take that shower. Then I need to see Bobby . . . tell him I am leaving Picketsville.”

Dean pecked him on the lips. “I’ll leave ya to it, then,” he said before tugging on his shoes, grabbing his jacket, and exiting the room. A few minutes later, Castiel heard the Impala roar to life. When the car’s noise receded, all was still.

Despite the pain of last night, Castiel felt strangely limber, almost rejuvenated. His shoulder blades still hurt, and he probably should have asked Dean to bandage them before he showered, but it was too late for regrets. In the bathroom, he methodically stripped, his fingers reaching the necklace last. The thing was an abomination, Castiel decided. He wished he knew how to destroy it. Although maybe, he reflected, it would be useful in his travels with the Winchesters; after all, they might encounter a demon.

He grinned, amused at how absurd his life had become, and stepped into the shower.

Initially, his back smarted when the water made contact, but soon he became inured to the sensation. He left the shower feeling refreshed.

He dressed in jeans and a blue long-sleeved shirt then threw on his overcoat. Soot stained it, but he didn’t own another jacket.

He drove to the garage, strolled inside, and asked the cashier where Bobby was. A moment later, Bobby appeared.

“What the hell are ya doin’ here, ya idjit?” Bobby admonished. “You should be restin’!”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Castiel assured him. “Really.” He glanced at the desk clerk then turned back to Bobby. “May we talk alone?”

“’Course.” Castiel followed Bobby into the back of the shop, where the two of them sat down at an old folding card table. “How’re ya holdin’ up?”

“I am doing quite well, Bobby. But . . . ” He was suddenly unsure about how to broach the topic. “I am going with Dean.”

“Huh?”

“When Dean leaves Picketsville . . . I am going with him.”

Bobby frowned. “You carryin’ a torch for him?”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “How did you know--?”

“It’s all over your face, son. I just have this to say. If you’re goin’ with him because you want him to notice you or some shit . . . you’re in for a worlda hurt, Cas. He’s not, um, that type, and he’s never gonna feel the same way you do.”

Castiel had never been happier that Bobby was wrong. “But he does, Bobby.”

Bobby’s expression grew astonished. “You’re sure?”

“I am certain,” Castiel affirmed.

“Aw, hell, son, I’m gonna miss ya.” He hugged Castiel and gave him a gruff pat on the back. “Call every day, y’hear?”

xxxxxxxxxx

After Dean, Castiel, and Bobby had left the library, Jessica and Sam went to her house. She didn’t feel like being alone, so Sam agreed to stay with her. They both settled into her bed because, why not? Sam didn’t have a change of clothes with him, and Jessica was too exhausted to put on her pajamas. Sam threw an arm around her shoulders and they lay there, silent, taking comfort in each other’s presence. Neither of them could sleep.

She must have eventually dozed off, though, because she opened her eyes to sunlight filtering into the room through gauzy white curtains.

Sam’s hazel eyes met hers. “Good morning, Jess,” he said, sounding chipper.

“Good morning, Sam,” she echoed.

“What time is it?”

Jessica checked her phone. “Eight-thirteen.”

“Wow. Did we sleep at all?”

“A little. How about breakfast?”

“Sounds good.”

Sam followed her into the kitchen, where she searched the fridge until she found something she wanted to eat. Yogurt. She picked up another container and held it up. “Want one?” she asked Sam.

“Sure.”

Jessica grabbed spoons, and they plunked down at the small dining table. After a second, Sam cleared his throat. “So. Dean and I will probably be leaving this afternoon,” he announced.

“Oh.” Of course. She schooled her face into neutrality. No need to get hysterical about this. After all, she’d known what she was getting into. She’d always understood Sam wouldn’t be staying in Picketsville.

Yet she’d stupidly fallen for him, and fallen pretty hard. The thought seemed ludicrous. She had known him for only a week, but still. He was ten times better than the available men in town. He didn’t constantly pressure her to have sex. She appreciated his willingness to go her speed.

In many ways, Sam seemed to be her ideal companion.

She cursed her foolishness and resolved to remain objective. “So, I guess today will be good-bye.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. Why did he look disappointed? He swallowed a spoonful of yogurt then spoke again. “I don’t know how you feel about this, but . . . would you like to come with us?”

“Come with you?”

“Yeah. Me and Dean. When we leave town.” He sounded nervous.

She frowned as she considered the offer. Here was a chance to pursue the burgeoning relationship with Sam. Was it a good idea? His vocation . . . well, he did travel around the country searching out and hunting harmful supernatural entities. Should she join him, or would it be wiser to nip things in the bud?

No. If Sam wanted to continue with her, then she wanted to continue with him. It wasn’t like she had a reason to stay in Picketsville, anyway. The library had been incinerated, and it would probably never be replaced. “What about Dean?” she asked.

“What about Dean?”

“Are you sure he’d be okay with me tagging along?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine.”

She brightened. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll go with you, Sam Winchester.” Now she just had to think of a way to inform her parents she was running off with a “researcher” she’d met a week ago.

Yeah, that was _all_. She wouldn’t blame them if they thought she’d gone insane.

She would also need to tell Cas, but he would understand.

Sam grinned. She loved that charming boyish smile. “Lemme text Dean. I think we should meet him and Cas for lunch at noon. How’s that sound?”

“At the motel?”

“Sure.”

“All right.”

After Sam finished his correspondence with Dean, he threw away their empty yogurt packets and washed the spoons. She thanked him, and they spent an inordinate amount of time kissing in the kitchen.

xxxxxxxxxx

While Dean was in the shower, Sam flipped through the newspaper, looking for any unexplained phenomena. Sam’s lips still retained the warmth from earlier this morning, that make-out session with Jess . . .

He hoped that would happen again. A lot.

She was going to meet him and Dean here later, after breaking the news to her parents. Sam had been amazed when she’d actually accepted his offer. It had been a spur-of-the-moment proposal, and the minute it was out of his mouth, he’d thought she would burst into laughter.

Instead, she’d said yes.

He looked forward to having her around, to growing closer to her, maybe even . . .

 _Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. You’ve been with this girl for a week and you’re already thinking of a long-term relationship?_ If Dean knew, Sam would be the butt of all his jokes.

Sam returned his attention to the _Picketsville Sentinel_. He despaired of finding anything up the Winchesters’ alley until he spotted a strange story near the back.

Dean stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and steam wafting out behind him. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so. In Mount Pleasant. Over the past three days, two corpses have been found. Whoever did it cut their tongues out and gouged out their eyes.”

“That’s fuckin’ gross, man. How d’ya know this is our type of thing and not, y’know, just your run-of-the-mill psychopath?”

“Does your run-of-the-mill psychopath rip out eyes and tongues with his teeth? Humongous teeth?” Sam deadpanned.

“Maybe?” Sam gave Dean a reproachful look. Now Dean was just being stubborn. They’d chased after cases with far less to go on. “Okay, okay. Fine. Where’s Mount Pleasant, anyway?”

“Texas. East Texas,” Sam clarified. Like the _Sentinel_ would carry much news about events outside a four-hundred-mile radius.

“Don’t tell me. Another shithole like this place.”

Sam cracked a grin. “I think it’s a little bigger.”

“Whatever,” Dean said dismissively. “Listen. I’ve got somethin’ to tell ya.”

“Oh?”

Dean picked at a hangnail, his manner almost bashful. What the hell? “Yeah. I kinda sorta invited Cas. And he’s comin’.”

“What?” Seriously. Why would Dean do that?”

Dean raised his eyes a little. “Cas’s comin’ with us,” he repeated, his cheeks turning beet red.

With a shock, Sam realized the truth. His straight commitment-phobic brother had nursed a crush after all. On _a guy_ , no less. Sam smirked. “You and Cas—”

Dean held up a hand. “Shuddup, Sammy.”

“I also have something to tell you,” Sam declared, hoping anxiety hadn’t seeped into his voice.

“Go on,” Dean prompted.

“I invited Jess, and she’s coming, too.”

Dean chuckled. It was one of those rare, full-bodied laughs Sam wished he heard more often. “That’s awesome. I’m gonna get dressed.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel spent the rest of his morning with Bobby at the garage, and Dean picked him up shortly before lunchtime. Dean ribbed him for the ruined overcoat and insisted they needed to find a new one ASAP. Bobby groused that Dean “better make sure his boy stays in one piece.” Castiel rolled his eyes, but to his surprise, Dean responded in earnest, calling Bobby “sir” and assuring him Castiel’s safety was a priority.

Bobby snorted. “Don’t try to kiss my ass, ya idjit.”

“I’m not!” Dean replied with indignation. He threw an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel leaned into the embrace. “Cas’s special,” he murmured. Castiel blinked. Was that a veiled reference to Castiel’s status as a Nephilim? Or did Dean mean it in a personal sense? 

After they left the garage, they stopped at Castiel’s house, where Castiel packed his bags then deposited them into the Impala’s trunk. Then they drove to the diner, ordering salads for Sam and Jess, a bacon cheeseburger for Dean, and a chicken sandwich for Castiel.

“Here’s the grub,” Dean announced when they shuffled into the motel room. After Dean distributed the items, Castiel asked if he and Jessica could have a moment alone. He wished to convey his travel plans to her personally. Sam and Dean grabbed their food and stepped outside, Dean urging Castiel and Jessica to hurry up because “it’s frickin’ cold.”

“What is it, Castiel?” Jessica asked after Dean shut the door.

“I . . . I need to tell you something,” Castiel replied.

She raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I have decided . . . I am going away with Dean. You were right about him, and I—well, I’d like to spend more time with him. I shall miss you terribly, Jessica, but I think . . . this feels like the right thing to do.”

He had expected Jessica to look sad, perhaps a little disappointed, but instead she seemed _overjoyed_. Was she truly that glad to be rid of him? “I have something to tell you, too, Castiel.”

“Yes?”

“Well. I am going with Sam.”

“You’re . . . ” She would travel with the Winchesters, too? His lips split into a grin; he would not be separated from his best friend after all. They enveloped each other in a hug.

“You better get them before Dean barges in and starts whining,” Castiel expressed, his tone light.

“Will do.”

“We’re all good in here?” Dean said once he and his brother were back inside.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “We are all . . . good.”

“Awesome.”

When everyone was finished eating, Dean and Sam checked out of the inn. Jessica grabbed her bags from her car and moved them to the Impala. “You’re just gonna leave your car here?” Sam asked her.

She shrugged. “My parents’ll pick it up.”

“Oh.”

Dean slid into the driver’s seat, and Sam took the passenger seat. Jessica clambered into the back, and Castiel was about to join her when Dean glared at Sam and griped, “Whatcha doin? Shotgun’s for Cas.”

“But—” Sam began.

“Zip it, Sam. You heard me.”

Sam appeared miffed, so Castiel said, “It’s all right, Dean. I’ll sit in the back.” He didn’t understand why Dean insisted Sam switch with Castiel, anyway.

“No, Cas. This’s your spot today.” He patted the seat. “You done good. You _broke a curse_ , for chrissake.” Dean turned to face him, angling himself so Sam didn’t block his line of vision. “You did break the curse, right?” he repeated, his tone more serious.

“Yes, I believe I did.” Otherwise, Anael would not have spared him. He wondered where Anael was now, and he wished her well.

Dean looked back at Sam. “How can you deny a man his just reward?”

“Fine,” Sam sighed as he scrambled into the back.

“I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” Jessica commented, toying with a lock of Sam’s hair. “What’s wrong with spending time back here with me?”

“Got me there,” Sam acknowledged.

“Where’re we going, anyway?”

“Mount Pleasant.”

She laid her head on Sam’s shoulder. “How glamorous.”

“Bit crowded in here with four of us,” Dean mused, but he sounded happy. He revved up the Impala and maneuvered out of the parking lot. “So, Cas,” Dean said, “ya gonna tell us what happened to you in the library?”

The experience with Anael felt private, and Castiel was not sure he wanted to share it. But they had a right to know some things, he supposed. “It is a long story,” he pointed out.

Dean smiled and placed a hand on top of Castiel’s, stroking the palm with his thumb. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Romans 12:1, Leviticus 26:39-43 is one of the Bible verses from Chapter Five: "And they that are left of you shall pine away in their iniquity in your enemies' lands; and also in the iniquities of their fathers shall they pine away with them. If they shall confess their iniquity, and the iniquity of their fathers, with their trespass which they trespassed against me, and that also they have walked contrary unto me; And that I also have walked contrary unto them, and have brought them into the land of their enemies; if then their uncircumcised hearts be humbled, and they then accept of the punishment of their iniquity: Then will I remember my covenant with Jacob, and also my covenant with Isaac, and also my covenant with Abraham will I remember; and I will remember the land."
> 
> That's a wrap, folks. I have an idea for a fluffy short fic (with a tad more smut, though I'm not confident in my smut-writing abilities) about the gang (in this verse) spending Christmas at Bobby's, which I may or may not write. If there's interest (and if I have time), perhaps I will work on it.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Seriously, I thought that maybe five people at most would even look at this. Without you readers, I probably would've written this fic at a much slower pace. I appreciate the subscriptions, kudos, bookmarks, and feedback very much! If you have thoughts you'd like to share, I'd love to read them! Finally, if you enjoyed this story, please leave kudos so I can know.
> 
> Thanks once again! I feel like I can't say that enough.


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